Musical Affective Economies and the Wars of Religion in Lyon By Jessica Angela Anne Herdman A dissertation submitted in partial satisfaction of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Music in the Graduate Division of the University of California, Berkeley Committee in charge: Professor Kate van Orden, Co-Chair Professor James Davies, Co-Chair Professor Mary Ann Smart Professor Charles Hirschkind Summer 2015 Abstract Musical Affective Economies and the Wars of Religion in Lyon by Jessica Angela Anne Herdman Doctor of Philosophy in Music University of California, Berkeley Professor Kate van Orden, Co-Chair Professor James Davies, Co-Chair This dissertation examines musical affective economies surrounding the Wars of Religion in Lyon. Expanding on affect theory that considers how emotions stick to and slide from subjects and objects, this research asks how musical affect also sank into bodies and ontologies, serving to both bond and break the community of Lyon. I consider how the boundaries of community were delimited through musical theatre in the early sixteenth century, demonstrating how techniques of communitas were essential to performing this community. I explore how the principal of Lyon’s Collège de la Trinité made use of these techniques, both in his pedagogical theatre, and in an elite musical print aimed at religious reconciliation. From here, I examine how these techniques began to be used towards divisive ends, as Protestants confronted Catholics with psalms and “spiritual songs.” A group of martyr songs, disseminated amongst both elite and more popular audiences, activated the Protestant habitus through such genres, putting the visceral experiences of five young martyrs of Lyon into oral circulation. The subversiveness of such “spiritual songs” within orthodox martyrological practices underscores the musicality of how the theatre of martyrdom was memorialized. Polemic was especially propagated through the inflamed populace in the guise of “chansons nouvelles,” contrafacta songs that were “sung to the tune of” extant popular tunes. Exploring how this genre engaged with contemporary notions and concerns about anger, I demonstrate how the timbres (song bases) of these “chansons nouvelles” accumulated affect across the Wars of Religion as they were adhered to violent Catholic invective. Finally, I turn to Lyon’s proto-social welfare project, permanently established in 1534, the Aumône Générale. Interrogating how the institution subjected the city’s impoverished residents to a Catholic economy of faith, I focus on how the hyper-marking of the forced musical processions of the poor would serve to facilitate their eventual confinement in the seventeenth century. Positioned within the emergent subfield of music and conflict studies, this dissertation argues that, because of its very ephemeral and emotional qualities, music was a vital force in cultivating both solidarity and animosity during the tumult of the Wars of Religion. 1 For Alan Peter Herdman 1943-1999 i Table of Contents Abbreviations iii List of Figures iv Acknowledgments vi Introduction 1 Chapter One The Lyonnais Emotional Community and the Musical Theatre of Urban Life 10 Chapter Two Lyon’s Musical Martyrs 68 Chapter Three Street Songs and Musical Economies of Anger 102 Chapter Four Musically Marking the Subject: Fear, Contagion, and Lyon’s Processions of the Poor 150 Afterword “Une jeune pucelle” goes to New France 194 Bibliography 198 ii Abbreviations ACh Archives de la Charité de Lyon AM Archives Municipales de Lyon BL British Library BML Bibliothèque Municipale de Lyon BnF Bibliothèque National de France CUL Cambridge University Library iii List of Figures and Examples Figure 1.1 “Difference des Raisonnables Essences” Emblem Aneau, Imagination poetique (1552) 29 Figure 1.2 “Conversion de l’Amour a l’Estude des Lettres” Emblem Aneau, Imagination poetique (1552) 30 Figure 1.3 “De Plenitudine Eius” Emblem Montenay, Emblems ou Devises Chrestiennes (1571) 31 Example 1.1 Opening phrase of Pierre Sandrin, “Doulce mémoire” from Le Parangon des Chansons (1538) 38 Example 1.2 “Laissez Paistre vos bestes,” La Fleur des noelz (1535) 44 Figure 1.4 “Salutation Angelique,” Aneau, Genethliac (1559) 52 Figure 1.5 “Venue des Roys Mages,” Aneau, Genethliac (1559) 53 Figure 1.6 “Branle des Bergiers & Bergieres,” Aneau, Genethliac (1559) 54 Figure 1.7 “Branle des Bergiers” Woodcut, Aneau, Genethliac (1559) 55 Figure 1.8 “Visitation de la Vierge” Woodcut, Aneau, Genethliac (1559) 56 Figure 1.9 “Adoration des Roys” Woodcut, Aneau, Genethliac (1559) 57 Example 1.3 Reconstruction of “Salutation Angelique à la Vierge” Aneau, Genethliac (1559) 63 Example 1.4 Reconstruction of “Venue des Roys Mages” Aneau, Genethliac (1559) 65 Example 1.5 Reconstruction of “Branle des Bergiers, & Bergieres” Aneau, Genethliac (1559) 66 Figure 2.1 83 “Dedans Lyon,” Martyr Songs (1554) iv Figure 2.2 “Or sus tous humains,” La Fatale Mutation (1562) 90 Figure 2.3 Confession de la foy chrestienne (1562) 94 Figure 3.1 “Chanson IIII,” Désiré, Contrepoison (1562) 105 Figure 3.2 Chanson Nouvelle a l’encontre des Huguenotz (1572) 116 Example 3.1 Typical Branle Gay 121 Example 3.2 (Adapted) Branle, Arbeau, Orchesographie 122 Figure 3.3 “Quand ce beau printemps je voy” Le Roy, Livre d’Airs de Cour (1571) 139 Figure 3.4 “Quand ce beau printemps je voy” Chardavoinne, Le recueil ... des voix de villes (1576) 139 Figure 3.5 Chanson Nouvelle de la Paix par le Peuple de France (1588) 146 Figure 3.6 La Fleur de Toutes les Plus Belles Chansons (1596) 148 Figure 4.1 General Corpus Christi Procession Route in Lyon 170 Figure 4.2 Poor Procession described in Police de l’Aulmosne (1539) 170 Example 4.1 “Adore un Dieu” Canon Coyssard, Paraphrase des Hymnes (1592) 177 Figure 4.3 “Kyrie eleison” and “Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis,” Coyssard, Paraphrase des Hymnes (1592) 178 Figure 4.4 Poor Procession described in AM ACh in 1589 188 Figure 4.5 Poor Procession described in AM ACh in 1615 192 v Acknowledgements This dissertation is the product of years of conversation, inspiration, and engagement with friends, colleagues, and mentors. It would be impossible to adequately acknowledge everyone who has influenced this work. The support and know-how of the staff in the Department of Music at UC Berkeley has been a blessing. Melissa Hacker, Lisa Robinson, and Jim Coates have been pillars of competence and kindness throughout the program. Stimulating seminars with Richard Taruskin, Pedro Memelsdorff, Davitt Moroney, Bonnie Wade and Holley Replogle-Wong afforded both a foundation in a diverse body of musicology, and a forum for thoughtful engagement with my brilliant peers. My cohort has shared this journey from the getgo, and it has been an honor to bask in Olga Pantaleeva’s candid critiques and heartfelt concern, and Nell Cloutier’s care for details, and love of puns. My early music colleagues have always generously offered up their wealth of knowledge, and Rebekah Arendt and Jonathan Rhodes Lee set an inspiringly high bar. I am indebted to Leon Chisholm’s feedback on my zanier theories, as well as my concrete musical constructions, and I am ever-thankful for his reliable Canadian wit. It has also been a delight to find the humor in Renaissance musicology alongside Margaret Jones. Beezer de Martelly’s dedication to a combination of social justice and awesome adventures continues to kindle my desire to do musicology that matters. Sarah Carsman has always managed to turn distracting respite from work into the most stimulating discussions. I look forward to many more diversions with your excellent team, Andre Mount, and young Otis. Anicia Timberlake has been a sage and stalwart friend, and her amazing smarts and compassionate spirit are always an inspiration. I would like to acknowledge the support of a Canadian Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council Doctoral Fellowship, which facilitated focused study during my doctoral program, as well as the flexibility to pursue thorough archival research in France. Philippe Vendrix and Xavier Bisaro at the Centre d’Études Supérieures de la Renaissance in Tours were incredibly welcoming as I ventured into my first stages of research in France. My transition to the archives in Lyon was enlivened by Marc Desmet’s incredible knowledge of the city, as well as his enthusiasm for exceptional live music. I am also indebted to the expert advise of the kind staff at the Archives Municipale de Lyon, as well as the archives of the Bibliothèque Municipale de Lyon. Thank you to Lucie Bardalou for her hospitality with each return to Lyon, as well as the dear friendships and mirthful music-making with Alice Gelmi and Sebastien Arrighi and their Orange Way pals in Paris. Warmhearted thanks to all of the friends who have put us up and revelled with us during my research tours – Armando Lacerda and Fiona Woods in London, Eugene McNamee in Belfast, and Ian Hansen and AnnMary Matthew in New York. The Mellon Seminar in French Paleography at the Newberry Library was a boon to my work with archival sources, and I am grateful to Marc Smith for his patience in training us to deal with the impenetrable scrawl of sixteenth-century institutions. The support network of a few fantastic scholars in this seminar helped me to move past some of the most arduous moments of this dissertation – especially Pauline Goul, Kathryn Levine and Linda Louis. I will always be grateful for Kathryn’s enthusiasm for old French, aesthetics, and team translating. During the writing phase of this dissertation, the interdisciplinary “Problems of Faith” Seminar sponsored by the Townsend Center, and led by Ethan Shagan and Albert Ascoli, offered a forum for discourse on some of the most pressing issues in research into faith and belief. I had the opportunity to present portions of Chapter Two at the “Problems of Faith Conference” that vi emerged from this seminar, as well as sections of Chapter Three at the Society for the Study of French History’s “History and the Senses” Conference, and early versions of Chapter Four at the University of London’s “City Margins, City Memories” Conference. I am indebted to organizers for curating such provocative sessions, and for the diverse feedback that I received from colleagues. I am especially grateful to Luc Racaut for his enthusiasm for my work, as his research has been foundational to my own. The Mellon Dissertation Writing Seminar at UC Berkeley, fabulously curated by Michael Lucey, offered a unique chance to engage with colleagues on theories pertinent to all of our work, while also providing the pressure and stimulus of presenting our writing to our peers. A visiting fellowship at Harvard University facilitated the final writing stages of this dissertation, while also affording energizing interactions within the music department. The opportunity to participate in Sindhumathi Revuluri’s seminar “Music and Empire” in particular allowed me to explore the ways in which my dissertation research resounds in colonial contexts. I have also learned a great deal about exploring emotionally challenging material through teaching; in particular, I was lucky to have a crew of outstanding students at Berkeley for my first foray into teaching the difficult issues involved in “Music and Social Conflict.” I am, of course, forever indebted to my own mentors. Alex Fisher has been an incredible model of professionalism and dedication to the discipline and its pedagogy. I came to realize the valuable forms that musicological research could take by studying his methodologies, and I have had the privilege of his continued input as my own research shifts into new arenas. I am grateful for the gusto, wisdom, and patience with which my dissertation committee has approached my research. Throughout my time at Berkeley, James Davies has been a rousing conversationalist on topics intersecting with my research. I am thankful for Mary Ann Smart’s generosity, and her ability to get straight to the heart of the matter in her advice on writing, and on career paths. Charles Hirschkind has offered a balanced hand of incisive critiques and enthusiasm for the material, and the consideration that he puts into theoretical engagement and pedagogy has been inspiring. It was Kate van Orden’s inimitable scholarship that initially drew me to this research, and it would have been impossible to imagine how phenomenal she has been to work with. Through both candid critiques and energetic encouragement, she has spurred me on to pursue challenging topics, and supported me through some of the most difficult personal moments. I am forever grateful for her dedication as a mentor. Jobb Arnold has been a wonderful partner and friend, encouraging my wildest ideas as this dissertation took form. From the illegible archives to the interminable edits, he has brought his unique compassion and sense of adventure to the whole process. Our dialogues over the years have sparked much of this research, as has his brilliant way of engaging in the world. I am grateful to Blue Dixon for her smiles and benevolence through tough times and joyful ones. And thank you to Isaac Arnold for his open door, his levity, and his pragmatism. My own siblings have been surprising cheerleaders, regardless of how amorphous my ‘work’ seemed to be; Emily, Andrew, and Geoff will always remain a tough but invaluable audience. Thank you most deeply to my generous and caring mother, Margaret Herdman, who inspired my love of music, my critical thinking, and my concern for positive action. This dissertation is dedicated to the memory of Alan Herdman, my talented tuba-playing father whose exuberance for musical pedagogy has always galvanized my musicological curiosity. Thank you for the joy of music you imparted to generations. Your spirit continues to resound in all that we do. vii Introduction Bodies, Actions, Music In the fall of 2012 I was living with my partner on the hillside of the Croix-Rousse of Lyon in one of many buildings in the district that had once housed the huge looms from the heyday of the textile industry. One slow-moving Saturday morning, throwing back espressos while looking over my archival notes, I heard the distinct echoes of protest chants approaching our neighborhood. As Lyon is known as a leftist city, and France is famous for its progressive manifestations, I assumed that I would probably be in tune with the event. So we headed out of the apartment and downhill, towards the resounding chanting. But muddled by the mass of marchers on the move, it was hard to make out what the demonstrators were shouting. As we approached the Place des Terreaux, where a festival celebrating the annual arrival of the Beaujolais wine had been held the previous weekend, it became apparent that this was an enormous manifestation, involving thousands of people (the press later reported upwards of 30, 000 participants). They were marching alongside the square, cordoned off by barriers, and surrounded protectively by policemen. There were parents marching with their babies, their young and teenage children carrying pink and blue balloons, there was a large contingent of middle-aged and older men, and a notable presence of Catholic priests. And they were collectively shouting “une maman, un papa, c’est le droit de les enfants” – or “a mom, a dad, that’s the right of all children.” The new président, François Hollande, was about to pass a bill legalizing gay marriage, and thousands of people had gathered to protest against gay rights. The passage of the bill was actually inevitable, and these protesters were simply out to voice their disgust. This homophobic hatred continued in a constant stream for what felt like hours, and it shocked me that there could possibly be so many people in Lyon that were actively anti-gay rights. As it turns out, however, many of these protesters came from the surrounding countryside and had been bused in by wellorganized homophobes. What struck me most about this protest was the marchers’ need to make their revulsion public, to express it with bodies and voices moving through the streets (this in the age of internet-facilitated “slacktivism”). I was particularly struck by this compulsion because my work in the archives of Lyon’s Aumône Générale for the past several weeks had aimed to tease out the relevance of the enormous sixteenth-century forced processions of the city’s poor. The cityscape of Lyon that I had been exploring has by no means remained static across its history, but certain spaces have continued to be marked as the locale for estrangers. When the proto-social welfare system of the Aumône Générale decided its boundaries, for instance, the Guillotière was systematically excluded.1 And while it was long ago amalgamated as the 7ème arrondissement of the city, it continues to be known as an immigrant district; weeks before we had arrived, in fact, the Guillotière had witnessed the forced expulsion of an entire “squatting” Roma community. But what did this all have to do with music? In fact, the anti-gay rights march was strikingly devoid of music – a particularly weird lack, given the twisted celebratory nature of the event, as children tugged their pink (mama) and blue (papa) balloons along the parade route. The 1 AM ACh, E6, fol. 409. 1 sound of the protesters, however, had initially attracted my attention, and this is a significant aspect of sonic effects. For, until we could make out the words, only the affect of “protest” was clear. Importantly, as well, the protest left debris scattered across the city. Small, carefully designed leaflets reading “une maman, un papa, c’est le droit de les enfants” fluttered around the streets. Escaped pink and blue balloons bouncing across the square were suddenly endowed with hateful meanings. As I walked along the quai du Rhône that afternoon, I began to suspect passersby of their political beliefs. In short, the intense energy that filled this public space had left me emotionally charged, priming me to react to previously mundane objects like balloons and leaflets. While the particularities of this demonstration were what had affected me that day, the relevance of the space in which the protesters gathered also resonated with me as a music historian of early modern Lyon, for the Place des Terreaux had been the locus of many emotionally-charged events during the sixteenth century, everything from community theatre productions, to the burning of heretics. During this period, Lyon’s streets and squares coursed with sonic streams of celebration, mockery, praise, and derision. And the emotional charges that these public demonstrations elicited accrued to certain bodies, objects, and places, often amplifying in intensity with repetition. The stimulus to action on both sides of the conflict surrounding the Wars of Religion was often emotional, projecting feelings through public space. Sara Ahmed terms this state of emotions in movement “affective economies” – the public circulation of emotions, outside of the subject.2 She examines the ways in which affect slips between and sticks to subjects and objects, charging particular bodies and things with affective valence like hate, revulsion, love, desire. Beginning with an analytic rooted in Marxist economics, Ahmed argues that affect can acquire surplus value through this circulation: “Some signs […] increase in affective value as an effect of the movement between signs: the more they circulate, the more affective they become, the more they appear to ‘contain’ affect.” 3 “The subject” is only one node in this economic movement, and emotions slide both sideways, through association, as well as backwards and forwards, through psychological repression. While Ahmed rejects the notion that affect is psychologically based within the subject, she nonetheless applies a Freudian psychoanalytic lens to show how affect can be displaced (through transference), sliding onto discursively related bodies. Ahmed uses the Freudian concept of the unconscious to argue that affective impulses can be misconstrued and (re-)attached to other ideas. In Ahmed’s “affective economies,” it is the emotional (mis-)reading of others that serves to bind imagined subjects together and to align individuals with or against collectivities. Extending these theories into the realm of performance, I would argue that affect similarly slips and sticks onto certain actions. An archaic brand of musicology may identify music as a “thing,” but most current musicology considers music to be an action, an engagement that leaves residual traces in things (like manuscripts, prints, paintings, carvings, instruments ...). Musical economies, then, can include the affective movement between music-related bodies and things, but also musical actions. I use Ahmed’s notion of affective economies to frame this dissertation because it 2 3 Her position on affective economies was articulated in Chapter Three, “The Affective Politics of Fear” of her book The Cultural Politics of Emotion (New York: Routledge, 2004). A tightened version of these explorations was presented in her article “Affective Economies,” Social Text 22 (2004): 117-139. Ahmed, “Affective Economies,” 120. 2 foregrounds interrelationships, production, and reception so incisively. Foremost, the concept of affective economies stresses circulation. Thus, Ahmed’s theories provide an orienting jumpingoff point for further considerations of affect. Indeed, I do not subscribe to Ahmed’s position that emotions do not “positively” reside in subjects, a stance that orients her theories towards the superficial (which is not to say superficial in a derogatory sense). Ahmed is foremost concerned with the surfaces of bodies, and her concept of emotions thus describes how surfaces are shaped by emotions moving around. In her words, “[t]he accumulation of affective value shapes the surfaces of bodies and worlds.”4 There is no sense of penetration, of the porousness of being in this configuration; in this regard, I would ask, how do emotions not slip and slide into subjects?5 My research concerns the musical emotional practices that penetrated ontology, not simply affect that moved around surfaces, and, as such, the notion of affective economies for me does not exclude agency, or interiorization. My issue with the superficial way in which Ahmed construes affect overlaps with my rejection of theoretical approaches to affect that deny sentient beings agency more generally. For Ahmed, affective circulation becomes almost entirely discursive, and analysis of it is thus basically textual. On a more contentious level, for Brian Massumi, affect and emotions are parsed, where affect is pre-cognitive, and emotions are cognitive. His work Parables for the Virtual: movement, affect, sensation, which made a big splash within affect theory, forwards the notion that affect is the driver; registering a half-second before cognition, subliminal affective intensities compel us to act. For Massumi, affect is thus “irreducibly bodily and autonomic.”6 Ruth Leys has rightly critiqued Massumi’s work (and similar work that takes affects to be “inhuman, presubjective, visceral forces and intensities”7) for misrepresenting (and sometimes oversimplifying) the scientific research on affect that it utilizes. She argues that “[t]he whole point of the turn to affect by Massumi and like-minded cultural critics is [...] to shift attention away from considerations of meaning or ‘ideology’ or indeed representation to the subject’s subpersonal material-affective responses where, it is claimed, political and other influences do their real work.”8 Ahmed’s articulation of affective economies, on the other hand, is thoroughly political, and still about people interrelating; and while she does not focus on emotional agency, or how people generate and internalize contrived (propagandistic) affect, her emphasis on the circulation of affect is crucial to our understanding of the politics of emotion. While I do not make a separation between affect and cognition, more importantly, neither did my subjects. Part of what I aim to reveal in this dissertation is how sixteenth-century political and social actors talked about emotions, and how this related to musicking. As I will explore, these subjects repeatedly voiced concerns about agency, about the potential to control emotions, to quell or inflame the body social. My use of affect thus largely disregards Massumi’s theories; and my conceptualization of emotional circulation is a “both/and” – accounting for both the way in which affect is not necessarily located in subjects and objects, and the ways in which it can be. 4 5 6 7 8 Ibid., 121. Ahmed does not deny that subjects are part of affective economies, but rather, emphasizes (through phrasal copia) that emotions do not “reside positively” in the subject: “‘the subject’ is simply one nodal point in the economy, rather than its origin and destination.” Ibid. Brian Massumi, Parables for the Virtual: movement, affect, sensation (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002), 28. Ruth Leys, “The Turn to Affect: A Critique,” Critical Inquiry 37 (2011): 434-472 at 437. Ibid., 450-51. 3 Emotional practices and events can effectively slide and stick affect into bodies as well. Music offers an exceptional key to the multifarious potentials of affective movement, for it is at once one of the most subjective and the most public of emotional experiences. And for the period that I consider in this dissertation, exploring music allows us to access residues of affective embodiment – experiences of emotions that were both internal and external, at once communal and subjectively ontological. For during the early modern period, music only became manifest through bodies: those of performers and auditors. Its traces may (necessarily) reside in materials, but it was only ever enacted by agents. People (and certain animals) made music.9 Music and Emotions in Histories of Conflict In this respect, there is an integral difference between the media that a contemporary scholar of affect theory works with, and those that concern a historian of early modern culture. This issue is crucial to my work, for I make use of affect theory that foregrounds circulation. Of course, parallels are easily drawn between the massive effects that have resulted from the invention of the internet in the twentieth century, and the invention of print in the fifteenth. At one level, information sharing transformed dramatically in both cases, as did the potential for social organizing. At another, these new “popular” technologies were pursued by state censorship, but, in both cases, such attempts to control were slow to be realized. Clearly, however, not everyone had access to printed materials in the early modern period; and despite substantial rises in literacy, neither did most people have the ability to read them anyhow. Similarly, in 2014, the UN’s International Telecommunication Union revealed that more than three billion people (or 43.6 percent of the world) now have access to the internet; but more than two thirds of those users are from the richest countries on earth.10 In the largely oral culture of the sixteenth century, information was still necessarily received through internalization; it was not simply compiled. The sense, nonetheless, of “information overload,” so common in our era of constant media bombardment, was already at play in the sixteenth century. As Ann Blair argues, in the early modern period, the number of reference tools mushroomed in order to deal with swaths of both common authoritative and “rebirthed” knowledge: “the most important causal factor of [such expansion was] a newly invigorated info-lust that sought to gather and manage as much information as possible.”11 Rather than addressing the copiousness of information in the Renaissance, however, this dissertation demonstrates how music was key to making certain kinds of affective information digestible. Musical practices were, of course, embroiled with new technological developments, for 9 10 11 The discursive overlap between conceptualizations of animal and human music in the sixteenth century is evident, for example, with the term “gringoter.” This was used to refer both to bird song and to an improvised elaboration over a melody, generally characterized as a rustic musical practice. Further, “[i]n developing countries, 78 per cent of households have internet access, as compared with 31 per cent in developing countries and 5 per cent in LDCs [least developed countries].” Measuring the Information Society Report 2014: Executive Summary (Geneva: International Telecommunication Union, 2014), 3. www.itu.int/dms_pub/itu-d/opb/ind/D-IND-ICTOI-2014-SUM-PDF-E.pdf. Accessed June 5, 2015. Ann Blair, Too Much to Know: Managing Scholarly Information before the Modern Age (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2010), 6-7. 4 music was a prime medium for cultivating identity, sodality, or animosity; it was also an important means of effectively propagating information. In the most obvious and classic sense, the growth of print technology during the early sixteenth century allowed for the Word to be widely disseminated at the same time that literacy rates were on the rise.12 Because of its power to activate communities, both Protestant and Catholic factions in France sought to control this technology, though (as noted above) initially not very successfully. The Catholic hierarchy held back from circulating popular (i.e. not for the clergy) print until the onset of the Wars of Religion; and by the time Calvin’s power was established in Geneva, the Protestant elite sought to censor printed production in much the same manner as the Sorbonne.13 From this vantage point, the early decades of the sixteenth century are particularly intriguing both because censorship efforts were barely off the ground, and because communal practices – like music and theatre – continued to move across confessional boundaries. As I will explore throughout this dissertation, printing facilitated the quick production of polemic and subversive verses in the form of inexpensive broadsheets or pamphlets. Either set to music, or indexed as a chanson nouvelle to be “sung to the tune of” an existing song, many such poems moved rapidly from print into oral circulation through musical means. Importantly, these practices made use of novel and established forms. For even the chansons nouvelles were “sung to the tune of” songs that were already popular, so that they could be aurally recollected by the urban clientele that bought them. And while the sixteenth century witnessed the emergence of a powerful, and rapidly developing print technology, most news and views were still spread orally. Musical prints traversed these oral-literate boundaries, as songs could not only predate, but could also outlive their physical formats. This dissertation explores the play between material and oral movement, between the new and the familiar, emphasizing the particular affective purchase that the commonplace had within particular emotional communities. Indeed, my work makes use of Barbara Rosenwein’s important concept of “emotional communities”: “groups in which people adhere to the same norms of emotional expression and value – or devalue – the same or related emotions.”14 Rosenwein aims in part to refute historical work that has accepted a Freudian or Darwinian “hydraulic” theory of emotions, wherein emotions are conceived as “‘drives’ or forms of energy that would surge forth toward ‘discharge’ unless they were controlled, tamped down, or channeled.”15 She especially takes issue with Norbert Elias’ conception of the “civilizing process,” where emotions in the Middle Ages are figured as childlike and eruptive, in contrast to the restraint that supposedly became normalized 12 13 14 15 Elizabeth Eisenstein’s work was integral to establishing a historical narrative about the Protestant success in harnessing the (relatively) new medium of printing – in particular her seminal article “The Advent of Printing and the Protestant Revolt: A New Approach to the Disruption of Western Christendom,” in Transition and Revolution: Problems and Issues of European Renaissance and Reformation History, ed. Robert M. Kingdon (Minneapolis: Burgess Pub. Co., 1974). Her positions have since been critiqued on a number of fronts; particularly relevant to this dissertation in this regard is Luc Racaut’s work on Catholic rhetoric, propaganda, and processes of dissemination in Hatred in Print: Catholic Propaganda and Protestant Identity during the French Wars of Religion (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002). Andrew Pettegree, Reformation and the Culture of Persuasion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 145. Barbara Rosenwein, Emotional communities in the early Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2006), 2. My research has also been influenced by her earlier positions in “Worrying about Emotions in History,” The American Historical Review 107 (2002): 821-45. Rosenwein, Emotional communities, 13. 5 in early modern courts.16 While I would not suggest that Elias was qualitatively evaluating emotions, a marked teleology characterizes his position, where the control of emotions is foregrounded in relation to the formation of the state. Instead, Rosenwein’s notion of emotional communities focuses on interpersonal emotions, on the emotions that bind. The scholarly compulsion to study affect might itself be viewed through the lens of emotional communities – as a textual emotional community of contemporary scholars. As Sara Ahmed has emphasized, emotion (and particularly fear) has become a key issue in post-9/11 America.17 Ruth Leys has similarly pointed to the recent turn to emotion in history, political theory, human geography, urban and environmental studies, architecture, literature studies, art history, media theory, and cultural studies.18 Within music studies around the same period, there was a particular surge in interest, not directly in emotions per say, but in music and conflict. As several music scholars have noted, there was a clear correlation between 9/11 and North American musicological concern for the study of music and conflict – perhaps most explicitly in volumes like Music in the Post-9/11 World.19 In her 2006 article “Music as Torture/Music as Weapon,” Suzanne Cusick encapsulated the musicologist’s troubled drive towards such research: I began desultory research on a phenomenon of the current “global war on terror” that particularly wounds me as a musician – wounds me in that part of my sensibility that remains residually invested in the notion that music is beautiful, even transcendent – is a practice whose contemplation would always lead me to contemplation of bodies and pleasures. Not bodies in pain.20 Cusick, taking the first steps into the challenging study of the (then) current American state’s use of music as torture and as weapon, generally works as a Renaissance musicologist.21 Her shift into this contemporary research area is symptomatic of disciplinary interest in music and conflict studies, for concerted organization around research on music and conflict has not manifested within historical musicology. All of the post-9/11 volumes noted below (see note 19) focus primarily on contemporary conflicts, turning, at the earliest, to conflicts that fall within 16 17 18 19 20 21 The sociologist Norbert Elias developed these theories in the 1930s, but they began to resound in historical work in the 1960s. See The Civilizing Process (New York: Urizen Books, 1978). Ahmed, “Affective Economies,” 128-30. Leys, “The Turn to Affect,” 434. Jonathan Ritter and J. Martin Daughtry, eds., Music in the Post-9/11 World (New York and London: Routledge, 2007). Numerous themed conferences also took place during this period, some of which resulted in volumes, including John M. O’Connell and Salwa El-Shawan Castelo-Branco, eds., Music and Conflict (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2010); and Olivier Urbain, ed., Music in Conflict Transformation: Harmonies and Dissonances in Geopolitics (London and New York: I.B. Tauris, The Toda Institute for Global Peace and Policy Research, 2008). Other key volumes of collected essays on music and conflict include Susan Fast and Kip Pegley, eds., Music, Politics and Violence (Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 2012); and Bruce Johnson and Martin Cloonan, eds., Dark Side of the Tune: Popular Music and Violence (Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2009). Suzanne Cusick, “Music as Torture/Music as Weapon,” Trans 10 (2006). www.sibetrans.com/trans/articulo/152/music-as-torture-music-as-weapon. Accessed June 10, 2015. In a follow-up to her “Music as Torture” article, Cusick responded in part to her musicological colleagues’ surprise that she had taken her sabbatical to do work on such a vastly different subject. See “Musicology, Torture, Repair,” Radical Musicology 3 (2008). www.radical-musicology.org.uk. Accessed June 10, 2015. 6 lived memory – for which survivors and perpetrators still exist. While the imperative to pursue this work on contemporary contexts is understandable, there is also potential in putting musicological research on very recent (or current) conflicts into dialogue with research that addresses music and conflict in the more distant past. In this regard, I aim to place this historical dissertation into productive conversation with the emergent sub-discipline of music and conflict studies. Music, Affect, and the Wars of Religion This dissertation centers on the period of the Wars of Religion in France, which historians most typically date to 1562-1598. The overlapping social, political, and aesthetic issues surrounding the wars, however, extended well beyond these chronological bounds, and for this reason, my material reaches back into the early decades of the sixteenth century and forward into the early seventeenth century. The conflicts and attempted resolutions that were formally articulated by declarations of war and peace treaties were active at local levels well before the 1560s. The 1520s witnessed the beginnings of the famous incursions of “Lutherans” in Meaux that would end in the mass burning of fourteen convicted heretics in 1546. Likewise in Lyon, the former Jacobin monk, Alexandre Canus, preached radical “Lutheran” sermons during Easter of 1534 in Lyon and was consequently executed in Paris, amidst the persecutions following the 1534 Affair des Placards.22 While the Wars of Religion were long studied in terms of elite political struggles, beginning in the 1970s, a number of historians began to bring to the fore the dynamics of confessional conflict internal to urban communities – in particular, Natalie Zemon Davis (Lyon), Barbara Diefendorf (Paris), and Philip Benedict (Rouen).23 Street violence during the sixteenth century in the cities that these scholars have studied – from lynchings to massacres – resulted from both long-running propaganda, and the particular configurations of interpersonal dynamics endemic to each cite. Similarly oriented around the social, this dissertation focuses on conflict and belonging in the city of Lyon. I explore how civic community, identity, and subjection surrounding the Wars of Religion related to affective musical practices in and around the city. I query how music was involved in constructing and shattering community, both through voluntary and forced means. Towards this end, this dissertation makes use of a large archive of material that has long been ignored by Renaissance musicologists, in part because the musical aesthetic associated with it has been deemed unappealing. Much of the music is quite simple; some has to be imagined. In exploring ephemeral events, I often rely on traces of musical practices that come across as aesthetically mundane. But familiarity is sticky, and what I seek in this dissertation are affects that (sometimes briefly) clung to musics. By centering discussion on popular theatre, street songs, and processions, this study foregrounds the ephemeral, the performed, and the anonymous. Chapter One, “The Lyonnais Emotional Community and the Musical Theatre of Urban 22 23 Jacqueline Boucher, Vivre à Lyon aux XVIe siècle (Lyon: Éditions Lyonnaises d’Art et d’Histoire, 1995), 109. Natalie Zemon Davis, Society and Culture in Early Modern Europe, 2nd ed. (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1975); Barbara Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross: Catholics and Huguenots in Sixteenth-Century Paris (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991); and Philip Benedict, Rouen during the Wars of Religion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981). 7 Life,” begins by considering what it meant to perform communitas in early sixteenth century Lyon. Centering on the work of the humanist pedagogue Barthélemy Aneau, this chapter examines how novel and familiar practices were intermingled in exhibitions of community building. This chapter begins by postulating a “Lyonnais emotional community,” a civicallyidentifying group of individuals who participated in a shared sense of what it meant to produce appropriate affective displays of communitas. While this emotional community stretched across economic strata, it definitively privileged elite members; as a community, it was constituted by boundaries and exclusion. Attempting to instill unity, members developed what I call techniques of communitas – or practices that were valued within the Lyonnais emotional community for the ways in which they helped to cultivate adequate citizens. Two primary practices were community theatre (namely mystères and moralités), and the related musical genre of the noel. From this sketch of the Lyonnais emotional community’s means of performing communitas, I turn to two focal musical theatre pieces by Barthélemy Aneau, printed in Lyon: the Chant Natal, printed in 1539, and Genethliac, printed two decades later. I demonstrate how, in both of these publications, Aneau made use of the stickiness of techniques of communitas in order to propagate elite displays of Lyonnais community feeling via musical theatrics. By the time Aneau published his 1559 Genethliac, these same techniques that had aimed to articulate a broad Christian community in Lyon had begun to be deployed divisively along confessional lines. Chapter Two, “Lyon’s Musical Martyrs,” moves into the affective domain of bodily presence via the songs of martyrs. Public execution served an important role in cleansing the “heretical infection” of Protestantism from the body social; at the same time, such executions allowed for the emotionally potent creation of Protestant martyrs.24 One martyrology, printed in 1554 in Geneva, would become the authoritative piece of Protestant propaganda: Jean Crespin’s Book of Martyrs. In the same year, Guillaume Guéroult and Simon du Bosc printed a musical collection of spiritual songs in Lyon “Composed by Five Students held Prisoner in Lyon […] who Since Suffered a Cruel Death” – or what I call the Martyr Songs. Importantly, the five students who “composed” these songs had not only been the inspiration for Crespin’s authorized martyrology, they had also been ritualistically burned in the Terreaux square in Lyon the previous year, purportedly singing psalms throughout their journey from the processional dung cart to the pyre. This chapter demonstrates how the Martyr Songs collection incited emotions by documenting the students’ anticipation of their execution, thus subversively activating a Protestant habitus. This elite print is then set into relief by examining how it relates to more popular circulation of the same poems. Studying this early period offers an amended view of how official and unofficial narratives were disseminated, a circulatory process that indexes the musicality of how the theatre of martyrdom was memorialized. Chapter Three, “Street Songs and Musical Economies of Anger,” focuses on how music mobilized conceptualizations of hatred during the Wars of Religion. In Lyon, as in much of France, printed polemical songs grew rapidly with the rise of the Catholic League, amidst the burgeoning corpus of invective literature. Bookended by an original contrafactum from 1572, the “New Song [...] Tremble, tremble, Huguenots,” and its re-use as a timbre in 1589 for the “New Song of Rejoicing [...] on the Death of Henry de Valois,” this chapter examines the political commentary and religious identities that polemical songs activated, emphasizing their roles 24 See Nikki Shepardson, The Rhetoric of Martyrdom and the Protestant Community in Reformation France, 15201570 (Bethlehem: Lehigh University Press, 2007). 8 within economies of anger. Printed on the heels of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre in Paris, the 1572 “Tremble, tremble, Huguenots” sings of righteous sovereign anger, and recounts the gory ritualistic massacre that the Protestants had “brought upon themselves.” Moving from the inflammatory dimension of these songs, I illustrate the ways in which they engaged with and combatted official ideas about anger, conciliation, and pacification, and how they served to both reflect and to intensify confessional fury. Finally, Chapter Four, “Musically Marking the Subject: Fear, Contagion, and Lyon’s Processions of the Poor” addresses somatic musical disciplining on a massive scale. In 1534, the city councilors of Lyon permanently established one of the first European social welfare programs, in the guise of the Aumône Générale (General Alms) – an institution that presided over both the newly generalized civic alms-giving and the two “hospitals” that housed the city’s orphans. Only Lyonnais citizens could benefit from either of these wings of the Aumône, while other poor were forcibly removed from the city. Beginning with the instatement of the Aumône, the city of Lyon began to be marked out both sonically and somatically by enforced processions of these institutionalized poor. All recipients of the Aumône and residents of the hospitals were ordered to participate in regular musical processions throughout important parts of the city while singing litanies to Christ and the Virgin Mary, exhibiting crosses, and burning white candles. I examine specific instances where political elites staged poor processions (at the most tumultuous moments of the Wars of Religion) in order to mark out their political-spiritual position in key spaces of the city. In peculiar parallel with the royal entries and penitential processions that spatialized power and confessional allegiance in the sixteenth century, these poor processions clamorously demarcated points of economic and spiritual significance, thus claiming civic space. As I demonstrate through a contrafactum from a sermon celebrating the institution, Lyon’s poor were associated with ideas of infection from the outset of the Aumône. This rhetoric was exacerbated when Protestants began to be attacked as a contagion infecting the body social during the Wars of Religion. This chapter argues that the enforced musical processions were part of a hyper-marking of the poor that sought to benefit from the impoverished in an economy of faith (in which the poor had a special supplicatory connection to Christ). The marching and singing bodies that were demanded by sixteenth-century notions about performing this economy of faith, however, were at odds with concomitant desires to contain the city’s destitute. Combined with the rhetoric of affective fears of contagion spreading into the community, the Aumône’s processions enabled a regulation and circumscription of the poor that, in the seventeenth century, would ensure their confinement and silencing. Propagated through the Lyonnais populace in polemical song, affect made for subjection. 9 Chapter One: The Lyonnais Emotional Community and the Musical Theatre of Urban Life The Lyonnais Emotional Community Then such marvels beyond belief appeared before your very eyes [...] a fanfare of twelve trumpeters on horseback, each with their coat of arms on a blue taffeta banner dangling from their trumpet. [... This] brought everyone to their windows, and they pushed against one another to get a view of the six pages of honor who followed behind, also dressed in blue, atop the Captain of the cavalry of the enfants de la ville’s grand horses [...] Not far behind followed the Captain and his Lieutenant [...] with sixty or seventy [...] all [attired] in the same manner & richness […] Those at the rear [...] had little golden cymbals that chimed so pleasantly that the harmony of their soft sounds tickled the spirits of the awestruck public, as much as the precious shining stones dazzled the eye, such that in experiencing these [marvels] one could not tell whether he was dreaming, or waking. Because, to tell the truth, it was a straight up faerie. [...] This all solicited great praise [...] and [brought such] contentment to the people [that all became] lost in joy and pleasure.25 Thus the enfants de la ville paraded bedecked and jingling for King Henry II’s 1548 entry into Lyon, one of the more spectacular entries of the century.26 The “joy and pleasure” that their contribution solicited, however, was not so much a part of the weeks-long process of preparing for this entry. The enfants de la ville had so strongly resisted participating in the entry that the city council had been forced to coerce them to stay within Lyon’s confines. As sons of the city’s elite, the enfants de la ville were representative of the next generation of economic and social power in Lyon; their showing in the entry was thus integral to the city’s full display of fealty to King Henry II. And so, to be safe, the city council also bribed the enfants with gifts of wine and hams.27 The Lyonnais elite needed to put on a big show in order to secure their city’s privileges 25 26 27 La Magnificence de la Superbe et Triumphante entree de la noble & antique Cité de Lyon faicte au Treschestien Roy de France Henry deuxiesme de ce Nom. Et à la Roye Catherine son Espouse le XXIII. de Septembre M.D.XLVIII. (Lyon: Guillaume Rouille, 1549), C4v-D1r, “Mais ainsi se feignoit des merveilles, qu’il ne povoir croire, non à ses propres yeulx, voicy une fanfare de douze Trompettes à Cheval, chascun sa cotte d’armes avec la bannerolle de taffetas bleu pe[n]dant à leurs tro[m]pettes, lesquel firent remettre le monde aux fenestres, & se presser l’un lautre pour veoir six Pages d’honneur, qui venoient apres eulx sur les grandz Chevaulx du Capitaine de la Cavallerie des Enfantz de la Ville vestus aussi de bleu […] Non loing desquelz le Capitaine, son Lieutenant, & Enseigne la suytte de soixante & dix venoient tous parez de la mesme facon & enrichissement […] cellus de dessouz […] avec petites timballes d’argent plaisamment resonantes que l’harmonie de leur doulx son ne chatouilloit moins les esperitz du peuple estonné, que l’esclair des pierreries reluisantes esblouissoit les yeulx de tel, qui en les voyant ne scavoit s’il songeoit, ou vivoit. Car à la verité cestoit plus tost une droicte faerie […] Ce qui tourna à une non petite louange, mesmement à ceulx[...] & contentement du monde tout esperdu de joye & d’aise.” While they differ on many points, other accounts of the entry also reiterate amazement at the enfants de la ville’s display. Richard Cooper, The Entry of Henry II into Lyon: September 1548 (Temple, Ariz.: Medieval and Renaissance Texts & Studies, 1997), 41. Ibid., 25. 10 with the new king, Henry II; this was particularly imperative because the municipality was currently facing a dire economic situation. In order to greet the king in splendor, the city had to borrow substantially; the entry alone drew upwards of 200,000 livres of debt.28 The theme for the entry took up the ultra-Renaissance idea of “re-birthing antiquity” through local references to Lyon’s history as an ancient Roman settlement, “Lugdunum.” The enfants de la ville, in fact, grouped into two military contingents – one on foot, and one on horseback – were supposed to simulate the infantry and cavalry of the Roman army.29 Observers were at a loss about what these enfants de la ville were supposed to be, however; one pamphlet described the spectacle of an infantry dressed as Turks.30 A lack of “authenticity” and a tendency to exploit contemporary aesthetics was rampant within the Roman-esque entry. But the imperative of this mélange was clearly to remind the king of the importance of the city by referencing Lyon’s history as a Roman colony. Such ancient allusions emerged from an expanding interest in humanistic practices in the city. While the entry has been particularly noted for such humanistic features, this did not mean that it was purged of traditional – or “medieval” – elements. Henry II’s favorite part of his entry celebrations, in fact, was derived from the traditional June 4th Lyonnais festival, the Fête des Merveilles, which featured aquatic jousting competitions, or neumachia. While this fête had been banned in 1459, water sport had continued to be a prevalent part of public festivals in the city, as confraternities celebratorily challenged one another to jousting on the river. Similarly, the theatre that was incorporated into the entry tended towards the medieval-allegorical, to which were added some humanistic Arcadian scenes. The saynète staged at the fausse-porte de Bourgneuf was of this latter sort, with six musicians dressed as satyrs performing and frolicking.31 Further along, at the Griffon, the daughters of two Lyonnais notables, costumed as the figures of Immortality and Virtue, stood atop two pedestals and delivered brief laudatory poems as they offered symbolic gifts to the king – much like an allegorical moralité.32 By intertwining traditional features into an entry lauded for inventive humanism, planners such as Maurice Scève made use of the power of the familiar. Of course, the work of such canonic Renaissance figures in Lyon as Scève have solicited centuries of scholarly investigations. Another key figure in early humanist developments in the city and part of the creative team for the 1548 entry, however, was until recently derided by scholars for his pedantry, partly because of his use of “medieval” genres: Barthélemy Aneau. Aneau’s theatrical pedagogy, for instance, integrated novel humanistic features, but also made use of tried-and-true affective elements, clearly because they were pedagogically pragmatic. Serving as the Collège de la Trinité’s principal from 1538-1551 and 1558-1561, as well as thrice giving the Saint-Thomas sermon for the yearly civic festival celebrating the proclamation of the new city councilors, Aneau was one of the more visible figures in Lyon.33 As the principal of the Collège, he had a 28 29 30 31 32 33 Ibid., 27. Importantly, much of the debt was accrued by the municipal treasury, but the entry was also majorly financed by Cardinal Ippolito d’Este – particularly the naval spectacle. Ibid., 27-31. Ibid., 37-8. Le grand triumphe faict à l’entrée du Treschrestien et tousjours victorieux Monarche, Henry second de ce nom Roy de France, en sa noble ville et cité de Lyon. Et de la Royne Catherine son espouse (Paris: pour B. de Gourmont, 1548), fol. B. Cooper, The Entry of Henry II into Lyon, 81. Interestingly, one of these young ladies was the daughter of the successful cloth merchant and diarist Guillaume Guéraud, to whom I refer throughout this dissertation. Ibid., 82. Aneau gave the “oraison doctorale de la Saint-Thomas” in 1538, upon his arrival in the city, in 1540, and in 11 substantial influence on the elite of the city, via the education of their sons; and he ensured that the effects of his teaching were made public by having these students theatrically perform their Collège skills. An accomplished author, Aneau wrote two of the plays that the Collège students performed: Lyon Marchant (staged in 1541) and the Chant Natal (staged in 1538). Many of the same Collège students who participated in Aneau’s theatrical productions would have been part of the large enfants de la ville contingent that paraded as faux Roman soldiers in the 1548 entry; and as we saw, the city council’s insistence on their participation in the entry underscored their importance for public displays of Lyonnais identity. Since royal entries were supposed to present a distilled picture of Lyonnais society, the parade needed to be perfectly ordered such that one’s position within the community’s economic and political fabric was made legible. When groups were excluded this was a sign of their lack of political power – as was the case in 1548 when neither the Genoese (who had a rivalry with the Florentines), nor the Catholic clergy (who had a rivalry with the enfants de la ville) appeared in the procession.34 As a mondain parallel to the rites of Catholicism that were believed to effect change in the world, community spectacles like royal entries were treated with great care because they had a formative influence on social and political hierarchy. By bringing together representatives from across the city in micro and then staging that city’s idea of itself, such entries circumscribed the “Lyonnais emotional community” that I study in this chapter. My use of the term “emotional communities” draws on Barbara Rosenwein’s important work, Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages, which seeks to open up historical discussion about the “invisible” topic of emotions.35 As Rosenwein explains: An emotional community is a group in which people have a common stake, interests, values, and goals. Thus it is often a social community. But it is also possibly a “textual community,” created and reinforced by ideologies, teachings, and common suppositions [… E]motional communities are in some ways what Foucault called a common “discourse”: shared vocabularies and ways of thinking that have a controlling function, a disciplining function. Emotional communities are similar as well to Bordieu’s notion of “habitus”: internalized norms that determine how we think and act and that may be different in different groups […] I use the term “communities” in order to stress the social and relational nature of emotions.36 Indeed, this dissertation as a whole keys into the social and relational nature of emotions by interrogating some of the most familiar, “common” musical practices. The “Lyonnais 34 35 36 1548. His triple performance is unique in the history of the Saint Thomas sermon, as even Symphorien Champier was only asked to give the sermon twice. Brigitte Biot, Barthélemy Aneau, Régent de la Renaissance Lyonnaise (Paris: H. Champion, 1996), 153. Philip Hoffman discusses the importance of marching in entry processions within Lyonnais culture, giving specific details about the relevance of ordering. Importantly, he analyzes how the clergy’s political position within the city resulted in their exclusion from the 1548 entry. Church and Community in the Diocese of Lyon, 1500-1789 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1984), 1-8. Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 1. Ibid., 25. 12 emotional community” of this chapter refers to the public that was delineated by ideals of Lyonnais identity, a public that was constantly being made visible and audible through affective performances of community. This was a community that was constituted by exclusion and defined by Christian cosmologies and epistemologies. It kept Jews, Muslims, and other Others at bay, even whilst they resided within. Many of this community’s emotional performances were based in Christian rituals and beliefs; and ancient practices that were “revived” in this community were necessarily read through a Christian lens. As such, this chapter focuses on how instances of Lyonnais emotional community were articulated in the decades preceding the Wars of Religion. These wars would create unprecedented cleavages within the city, but even before their formal onset in 1562, the emotional community of Lyon was by no means a unified, harmonious organism. Prominent contingents in the community did, nevertheless, strive for communitas, and with increasing urgency as confessional tensions mounted. By focusing on a broad body of believers from diverse social and economics ranks, this chapter examines how this Lyonnais community joined together as participants and observers in public ceremonial and performance. In such displays of communitas certain bodies were definitively privileged: the elite were more likely to act in certain spectacles, while the menu peuple were more frequently onlookers. The Lyonnais emotional community also shifted frames continually; it remained, nonetheless, dually defined by religious practice and a sense of civic identity. And as we saw with the factionalism that plagued the preparations for Henry II’s 1548 entry into the city, this emotional community likely performed communitas more than it lived it. Music and theatre offer a particularly important access point through which to consider this Lyonnais community in the early decades of the sixteenth century. For, as I will explore, most theatre in early modern France was staged by a community – sometimes even an entire town. Much like Henry II’s entry procession, these theatrics were not simply entertainment. Community theatre in this period had the potential to transform or reinforce roles and behaviors through public spectacles performed by community members. Music was not only an important part of such theatre; as this chapter will demonstrate, music also carried the mores, references, and potency of theatrical experience into everyday life. This chapter thus emphasizes the importance of theatre and music in performing the boundaries of the Lyonnais emotional community. The affective techniques of mimesis and the ludics of musicking and theatrical practice helped to form and perform community membership. People watched and people listened as their neighbors impersonated characters that were integral to local Christian ways of being. Plays domesticated the Holy by having figures like Joseph, Mary, or even Jesus act out current community mores, and by incorporating quotidian contemporary references into biblical actions. After setting up the backdrop of general community theatre practices and the importance that these productions had within the social body, this chapter will turn to a subgenre of the mystère, the Nativity play. These productions included songs called “noels,” a popular genre that was both integrated into the plays and circulated widely on their own, beyond the limits of the theatrical event. This broader sketch leads to the core focus of this chapter: how the work of the humanist pedagogue Barthélemy Aneau harnessed affective genres to engage the values of the Lyonnais emotional community. I focus in particular on his two musical theatre prints that were published two decades apart, the Chant Natal contenant sept noelz, un chant pastoural, et ung chant royal, avec ung mystère de la Nativité par personnages: composez en imitation verbale et musicale de diverses chansons, recueilliz sur l’Escripture Saincte, et d’icelle illustrez (Lyon: Sébastien 13 Gryphe, 1539), and Genethliac: Noel Musical et Historial de la Conception, & Nativité de nostre Seigneur JESUS CHRIST, par vers & chants divers, entresemez & illustrez des nobles noms Royaux, & Principaux, anagrammatizez en diverses sentences, soubz mystique allusion aux personnes divines & humaines (Lyon: Godefroy Beringen, 1559). Given Aneau’s pedagogical influence over some of the key representatives of Lyonnais identity (namely, the enfants de la ville), these musical theatre publications may serve as a jumping-off point for considering how the Lyonnais emotional community was formed and projected by interwoven networks of theatre, noels, and emblems – genres that engaged with novel and established community practices. As musical and theatrical techniques were learned and enacted by subjects within the Lyonnais emotional community, they became what I will call “techniques of communitas” – or the skills that were valued and promulgated by an emotional community. Techniques of communitas were meant to intervene on ontology in order to help form adequate (or ideal) community subjects. I draw the notion of communitas in part from Victor Turner’s work on the anthropology of performance, wherein he argues: Extreme collectivism only understands man as a part. Communitas is the implicit law of wholeness arising out of relations between totalities. But communitas is intrinsically dynamic, never quite being realized. It is not being realized precisely because individuals and collectivities try to impose their cognitive schemas on one another.37 Turner’s theorization is useful because it emphasizes the processual character of communitas – its never-quite-achievable nature. Communitas was, indeed, constantly sought out; and techniques that aimed at making it manifest were developed with enthusiasm in the early decades of the sixteenth century in Lyon. Some techniques of communitas followed established practices, while others were innovative means of bringing together and performing an emotional community. The term “techniques” might seem at odds with the concept of communitas – but what I am interested in here is the way in which an emotional community strove for communitas, the way in which people attempted to emotionally perform unity. Such goals solicited means. Expanding on Turner’s perspective, this chapter will demonstrate how techniques of theatrical and musical performance shaped the ways in which the broad Lyonnais emotional community was articulated. Importantly, the techniques that I examine were not bound to the material remnants of their practice (upon which this research is necessarily based). The techniques of communitas that manifested in musical theater, for instance, have to be read for the most part from prints that were unlikely to have been part of performances; coming after the fact, they instead transformed acted theatre into literature. Similarly, the material traces that we have of the noels that musically orient this chapter were always-already based on oral practices; their written texts instantiated a fluid form of literacy, one marked by perpetual movement between aural and visual, song and ink. Even the emblem books that were linked to these above genres, defined as they were by their use of images, nonetheless demanded techniques of communitas 37 Victor Turner, The Anthropology of Performance (New York: PAJ Publications, 1987), 84. Turner’s approaches are especially pertinent to this chapter because of his deep interests in theatrical practice, and the relationships between community ritual and the formalization of theatre. See, for example, Victor Turner, From Ritual to Theatre: the human seriousness of play (New York: Performing Arts Journal Publications, 1982). 14 that drew on a broader vocabulary of urban Christian experience. A particular notion of “community” in itself is integral to my framework, because Lyon was by no means a singular urban collectivity. As Rosenwein argues, multiple emotional communities tend to co-exist.38 People in Lyon would have moved between differing, even competing emotional communities beyond the broad civic one circumscribed by this chapter. Their experiences across these communities no doubt varied substantially, and informed the way in which they performed belonging within the larger Lyonnais emotional community. As a European trade hub, Lyon was a city full of migrants from all social classes, estrangers both from within France and from without. The prosperous Luccese and Florentine nations, for one, developed entire structures of intermarriage, social collectivities, and religious institutions that still architecturally mark the cityscape of Lyon today. These smaller communities were bound not only by shared origins, but also by trade and profession, as groups formed into confraternities for mutual protection, publicly performing their sodality through festal celebrations. Analyzing the social impacts of the ritual and theatre of such urban confraternities, Robert Clark argues that “the ideal of communitas was, however, never meant to be all-embracing; inclusion serves also to define those to be excluded.”39 In sixteenth century Lyon, to perform community was to fix the boundaries of exclusion. As confessional tensions began to rise, the extant ways that people had of articulating Christian communities – like processions, theatre, and music – began to generate increasingly inflammatory affect. But in the early part of the century, these modes were as yet exclusionary, but not necessarily incendiary. The Musical Theatre of Urban Life Theatre was deeply embedded in Lyonnais life. Though recovering its traces may prove challenging, music was also thoroughly entwined with theatrical practice. While Paris would come to dominate the theatre of the later seventeenth century, in the sixteenth, the provinces witnessed a wealth of productions.40 One of the most remarkable forms of theatre in the provinces were the great mystères for which entire towns would sometimes turn themselves into a community of players, with performances that could run for up to forty days.41 Part of the reason that these productions were communal was that they cost so much to put on; but the result was a spectacle that engaged a wide range of the populace, interrupting normal city functions and everyday life. In Lynette Muir’s characterization, since these plays were not keyed to the celebration of a major feast, such productions were dedicated “to the glory of God and especially the honour of [the] city.”42 Further, Graham Runnalls has argued that these mystères had the 38 39 40 41 42 Rosenwein, Emotional Communities, 23. Robert Clark, “Community versus subject in late medieval French confraternity drama and ritual,” in Drama and Community: People and Plays in Medieval Europe, ed. Alan Hindley (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999), 45. Clark’s statement responds to a tendency in the 1990s to emphasize the collectivity in research on drama in urban experience, whereas the urban audience was “anything but unified.” Ibid. Graham Runnalls, “Drama and community in late medieval Paris,” in Drama and Community, 33. For the most in-depth studies of mystères in France, see much of Graham Runnalls’ work, but particularly Etudes sur les mystères: un recueil de 22 études sur les mystères français, suivi d’un répertoire du théâtre religieux français du moyen Age et d’une bibliographie (Paris: H. Champion, 1998). The classic, foundational study of mystères is Petit de Julleville’s Les Mysteres (Paris: Hachette, 1880). Lynette Muir, “European Communities and Medieval Drama,” in Drama and Community, 13. 15 effect of heightening the sense of community.43 According to these theatre historians, the long process of putting together a play was often as productive (if not more so) as the final theatrical event. Specifically discussing theatre in Lyon, Yvelise Dentzer argues: “We also believe that the context in which these mystères took place was not identical to other medieval festivals. In effect, mystères marked out a period during which the community was more tightly knit, more unified.”44 The most popular variety of mystère was the Passion play, and in France, a distinctive feature of these plays was their comprehensive range, as with, for example, Arnould Grébran’s Passion play, which was performed by a large number of towns and cities. This play was not just a depiction of the Passion, but also narrated episodes from the Fall, through the experience of Limbo, the Nativity sequence, the Ministry, and the Resurrection.45 Large mystères such as Gréban’s grew in popularity around the mid-fifteenth century, and continued to be performed well into the mid-sixteenth century.46 The desire within the community to be involved in such productions is clear from the sometimes ludicrously expansive casts, incorporating the most minor figures from biblical narrative into the action. The producer of these larger theatre pieces, often an external hire, would be pressured to include roles for all of the sons of the community’s elite; the resulting lack of artistry apparent in some theatrical pieces has frustrated generations of literary historians.47 Their emphasis, clearly, favored participation over aesthetics.48 While large stagings were normally financed by municipalities, the Church had long supported smaller productions. From the outset, the motivation for incorporating theatre into worship was to move the congregation emotionally. Barking Abbey instituted a Visitatio play as early as the thirteenth century, for example, with a rubric explaining that the play was meant to inspire excited devotion, as “the congregation of the people in these times seemed to freeze in devotion … [and] human torpor [is] greatly increasing.”49 The musical forces of such early liturgical dramas appear to have been on a much larger scale than those deployed for mystères and miracles by the sixteenth century. In his groundbreaking monograph, Music in the French Secular Theatre, 1400-1550 (1963), Howard Mayer Brown argued that by the early modern period, music had lost its leading role, and had become just another decorative element in these spectacles – though surely one that added luster.50 Sacred plays’ scenes were divided into three “mansions” decorated as heaven, earth and hell; music took place most often in heaven, while hell was reserved for torturous noise. Some plays 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 Runnalls, “Drama and community in late medieval Paris,” 28. Yvelise Dentzer, “Jehan Neyron, createur du premier theatre permanent de Lyon, 1539-1541,” Revue d’histoire du théâtre 2 (1999): 101-112 at 104, “Nous pensons aussi que le contexte dans lesquel se déroulaient les mystères n’était pas identique à celui des autres fêtes médiévales. En effet, les mystères marquaient un temps pendant lequel la communauté était plus étroitement soudée, unie.” Translation mine. Lynette Muir, The Biblical drama of medieval Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 34. Ibid. These productions emerged from a much longer lay interest in theatre, albeit one that had originally been on a much smaller scale. Glenn Ehrstine, Theater, Culture, and Community in Reformation Bern, 1523-1555 (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 38. This continued to be the case with the Protestant plays in cities like Berne, as discussed by Ehrstine. Ibid., 31-41. “The artlessness of local play texts is the final indication that participation took precedence over poetics in Bernese play productions.” Ibid., 39. Quoted in Muir, The Biblical drama of medieval Europe, 18. Howard Mayer Brown, Music in the French Secular Theatre, 1400-1550 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1963), 42. 16 included stage directions calling for the angels to sing specific pieces; in these instances, hymns predominated, particularly the Vexilla regis, the Veni creator spiritus, and the Te Deum laudamus, which was almost always sung at the end of mystères.51 A critical issue that plagues such studies is the paucity of sources. A large number of copies of mystères do survive from the fifteenth and sixteenth century – about 180 of them, most of which survive in manuscript form. But the makeup of these sources, based within theatrical practice, has limited our capacity to evaluate exactly how music was involved in the performance of mystères. Because of the process by which they were created, almost all of the manuscripts and prints are unica. When printed mystères started to be produced, the heyday of which ran from 1510 to around 1542, they were generally of pre-existing plays, and the manuscripts upon which they were based would be destroyed as they were annotated in preparation for print. Similarly, when a group set out to produce a mystère, they often began working from an extant play; the print or manuscript from which the play was derived would be ruined as it was marked up with substantial changes. For such productions, a fair copy of the final version would be drawn up, and from this, performance copies would be written out: rolles (literally, long rolls) would be prepared for each actor, containing only his part and the final lines of those preceding each of his lines; a part would also be written out for the meneur du jeu, containing detailed stage directions, and only the first and last lines of each speech.52 Most importantly, prints of mystères relied on fair copies, and these did not include most of the performance directions – like songs – that were included in actors’ rolles. The result was that if songs were not a direct part of the dialogue, their traces basically disappeared from the repertoire.53 While many such songs are now missing, they were a key part of performing communitas in mystères, both within the production, and as they circulated long after. The songs featured in French plays of the period were by and large contrafacta of popular songs. Within Nativity mystères, a particular variety of contrafacta was cultivated, a genre identified by authors and printers as “noels” (or nouel, nau, etc.).54 The timbres used for noels – 51 52 53 54 Ibid., 43. This entire summary is drawn from Graham A. Runnalls, “Religious Drama and the Printed Book in France during the late fifteenth and sixteenth centuries,” in The Sixteenth-Century French Religious Book, eds. Andrew Pettegree, Paul Nelles and Philip Conner (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2004). Tiffany Stern offers a lucid examination of “lost songs” in early modern English plays in Documents for Performance in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009). She demonstrates that, despite songs often being the “emotional heart” in a great many plays, they were very rarely actually included in published plays. This is not for lack of “authorial” concern, as playwrights like John Marston took great care with the publication of their plays; neither were these songs lost because playwrights did not care to retain them. The collaborative nature of song writing for plays – where a playwright wrote the words, and a music-writer the music – for one, meant that they would often pragmatically be written on a separate sheet or pamphlet. Ibid., 135. Overall, “it was plays as performance texts, not plays as ‘literature,’ that affected which documents were to hand for performance, and which documents were available when playwrights readied plays for printers.” Ibid. The genre-based collections identified as “noels” are a notable distinction from the genre classifications made as organizational categories by musicologists ex post facto. Block discusses potential etymologies in her full study of the noel genre: “Pansier, the historian of the noel provençal believes that the word ‘noël’ originated from nouvel an which became corrupted to nouel and finally to noel. It is also possible that ‘noël’ is the French counterpart of ‘gospel’ which originally meant ‘good news.’ There are a number of local variants of the word. Some of them have a ‘no’ root that is related to the Latin word ‘novus,’ meaning new or news, and others are related to the word ‘natalis,’ meaning birth.” The Early French Parody Noël, 2 vols. (Ann Arbor, UMI Research 17 where timbre refers to an extant tune and poetic pattern (generally a well-known song), signaled by the phrase “sing to the tune of”55 – index musical-performative interrelationships between mystères, miracles, moralités, farces, and sotties. Timbres commonly moved between these theatrical genres, a logical practice given the tendency for the same authors to write across sacred and secular genres. In performance, moreover, groups who were specially designated as sacred players shifted between the religious and the profane. The Confrérie de la Passion in Paris, whose royal charter of 1402 awarded them the right to perform “Mystères, be they of the Passion and Resurrection, or on other topics, on male or female Saint,”56 also expanded into farces, sotties, and moralités. Proving their concern for public urban life, they staged mystères mimés for royal entries, likely using their scenery from mystère and moralité performances.57 Disciplinary proclivities for content-based separations into sacred and secular (divisions that provide convenient frames for analysis) were surely not understood so categorically in the early sixteenth century. Furthermore, the integration of contemporary urban life into representation of the Holy actually acted out a sense that people in the present were in communitas with biblical characters. Theatre, in this way, was not just informed by contemporary life, but also possessed a potent capacity to act upon it. Victor Turner’s conceptualizations of social drama highlight the ways in which theatre and community could be mutually constitutive in such situations.58 Social drama for Turner is the process through which groups resolve crisis; he argues that social dramas are “the raw stuff out of which theatre comes to be created as societies develop in scale.”59 Turner articulates an interrelationship between ritual, liminality, drama, and crisis, where the liminal process of ritual effects the resolution of crisis in a community; the ritual is part of social drama. Theatre in early modern France made such processes explicit, particularly with genres like miracles, which focused on transgressive behavior. These plays followed a basic teleology that moved from a morally unacceptable act by a member of the community, to the intervention of the Virgin Mary, and the consequent restoration of social cohesion. The extent to which theatrical action could affect community life remains an integral question in historical work on early modern France. Natalie Zemon Davis’ important analysis of “topsy-turvy” festivals such as the “Chevauchees de L’Asne” or the Festival of Fools in early modern Lyon long ago reclaimed the play involved in “world turned upside down” events as being more than just a “safety valve.”60 Spectacles such as the “chevauchees” of the 55 56 57 58 59 60 Press, 1983), 1: 7. These were tunes, albeit, that took varied forms as they circulated orally; and while timbres often featured the same pitch content, they were most reliably rhythmically consistent – for, set by and large syllabically, the rhythmic patterns of timbres were co-dependent with their poetic meter. Quoted in Brown, Music in the French Secular Theatre, 32, “Misterre que ce soit, soit de la dicte Passion, et Résurrection, ou autre quelconque de saincts comme de sainctes.” Translation mine. Ibid., 33. For a volume that considers both the important influence of and the problematic issues with Victor Turner’s theories, see Kathleen Ashley, ed., Victor Turner and the Construction of Cultural Criticism (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1990). For a concise consideration of Turner’s theoretical paradigm of ritual in this volume, see Ronald L. Grimes, “Victor Turner’s Definition, Theory, and Sense of Ritual,” 141-146. Victor Turner, “Liminality and the Performative Genres,” in John J. MacAloon, ed., Rite, Drama, Festival, Spectacle: Rehearsals Toward a Theory of Cultural Performance (Philadelphia: Institute for the Study of Human Issues, 1984), 24. Davis, Society and Culture, 122. I will turn to the productions of the “Chevauchee de l’Asne” in Chapter Four, largely because the most thorough records on their practice come from prints commemorating “chevauchees” 18 confraternities and “Abbeys of Misrule” were a vital aspect of urban life, not only as forms of entertainment, but as vehicles for critiquing behavior that was deemed foreign to community mores.61 The mocking theatre of the “Abbeys of Misrule” also appeared in Lyon in the guise of the clercs de la basoche – the law clerks’ theatrical association. Evidence suggests that Lyon’s basoche was only organized into a corporation in the sixteenth century, when the association founded a chapel to Saint Nicholas in the Church of the Augustines.62 The first record that refers to the Lyonnais basoche dates to 1506 when the city council gave the Augustines and Florentine merchants permission to set up a stage in the Place des Terreaux in order to put on a Saint Nicholas of Tolentin play.63 According to Brouchoud, Lyon’s basoche was essential to the production of mystères in the city, as demonstrated by the double Mystère de la Conception de Notre Dame and the Mystère de Saint Jean-Baptiste that they performed over four days in August of 1518, on the Place des Cordeliers.64 Most of the mystères performed in Lyon until the late 1530s were similarly staged in the public squares of Cordeliers, and the Terreaux65 – the latter, notably, the site of much of the theatre of martyrdom to be examined in Chapter Two. Curiously, beyond Natalie Zemon Davis’ work on organizations such as the “Abbeys of Misrule,” little research has been done on theatrical practices in Lyon since Brouchoud’s 1865 work on the Origins du Theatre de Lyon.66 The exception has been the attention given to Jehan Neyron’s entrepreneurial enterprise, the first building in France dedicated to theatre. Opened in Lyon in 1539 in order to present mystères, the theatre was established in houses 2, 4, and 6 on the rue Hyppolite Flandrin, and according to the radical Catholic author Claude de Rubys several decades later, it was: “A large handsome theatre, with its Paradise above, and its Hell below, and risers all around it in the form of galleries [...] and there were three levels, one atop the other, and at the lower level there was a large and spacious area with benches for the menu peuple.”67 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 from later in the century (I will explore two from 1566 and 1578). The carnivalesque punishment of “charivaris” traditionally policed marriage or re-marriage that was deemed inappropriate in medieval and early modern Europe (a practice that continued, particularly in rural areas in Europe and North America, well into the twentieth century). In many communities, charivaris could become particularly violent when the marriage in question involved an extreme age difference between husband and wife. These attacks were based within the problem of availability, as the older man would be seen as unfairly removing a young lady from a limited pool of potential wives. As Natalie Zemon Davis has argued, charivaris became less focused on this issue by the sixteenth century in urban centers like Lyon, as young men had access to a greater number of marriageable candidates in the city. Inappropriate age differences remained policed, however, though with less urgency. See Society and Culture, 106. Claudius Brouchoud, Les Origines du theatre de Lyon (Lyon: N. Scheuring, 1865), 16. Ibid., 16 and 19. Ibid., 17. Dentzer, “Jehan Neyron,” 102. For example, in discussing theatre in early modern Lyon, Frank Dobbins’ amazingly thorough monograph Music in Renaissance Lyon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992) basically recaps Brouchoud’s statements, though he cites the tomes and folios of the Archives Municipales from Brouchoud’s footnotes as his source. See 71-72. Claude de Rubys, Histoire véritable de la ville de Lyon, Contenant ce qui a esté obmis par Maistres Symphorien Champier, Paradin, & autres, qui ce devant ont escript sur ce subject: Ensemble ce, en quoy ils se sont forvoyez de la verité de l’histoire, Et plusieurs autres choses notables, concernans l’histoire universelle, tant Ecclesiastique que prophane, ou particuliere de France (Lyon: Bonaventure Hugo, 1603), 370, “Un grand beau théâtre, avec son paradis au dessus, et l’Enfer au dessoubs, et tout autours environné d’eschaffaux, en forme de Galeries [...] et estoyent à trois estages, l’un sur l’autre, et au dessoubz y avoit une place grande et spacieuse, avec des bancs pour le petit menu peuple.” All translations of Ruby’s Histoire are my own. 19 Mystères were staged there on several Sundays from November of 1539, to the spring of 1541.68 According to Rubys, these displays consisted for the most part of “stories from the old or new Testament, with a farce afterwards, to entertain the audience.”69 Yvelise Dentzer argues that Neyron’s theatre had such a short run, not because he was an overly romantic dreamer (a characterization of previous historians), but because the popularity of the mystère itself was diminishing. That the theatre was able to run for over a year is in itself impressive, however, given how much it challenged prevailing social and institutional practice. As Dentzer argues, Neyron probably hired professional actors for the plays70 – which would have meant reconstituting what was typically a community theatre genre performed by and for the community. His operation also economically secularized the theatre, as his plays were financed by commercial capital.71 The Lyonnais citizens who could afford to attend these plays might have been satiated with such private productions after several months, in part because they failed to offer the same experience of liminal community that the large productions did. Regardless, the number of large mystère productions did indeed diminish in most areas of France – and certainly Paris – by mid-century. Some have associated this decline with the 1548 edict leveled at Paris’ Confrérie de la Passion, banning any productions of large-scale mystères in the Paris area.72 This edict was issued after two successful stagings of enormously long mystères by the Confrérie in 1540 and 1541, and was concerned more with the public behavior – disorder, and mockery of holy subjects – that took place in relation to the productions. The theatrical pieces were themselves not at issue. The casting of roles in community theatre often served explicit social functions. Topsyturvy festivals like the Christmastime Feast of Fools featured choirboys or chaplains taking on the role of bishops, burlesquing a sermon, and leading an ass around the church.73 In the charivaris that Abbeys of Misrule enacted, community members were often chastised for inappropriate behavior through role-play, sometimes with impersonators taking on the role of the errant citizen. In more dire situations, as during the massacres of the Wars of Religion, perpetrators often assumed judicial and religious roles, exacting punishment and ritually cleansing the community of heretical pollution.74 Local performers transformed themselves into such figures as Pontius Pilate, Annas, Caiaphas, Mary, Jesus, Joseph, and even God in mystères and miracles; abbots, judges, artisans, and fools in farces; and allegorical characters such as Charity, Gluttony, and Blasphemers in moralités. Whether acting oneself, or witnessing one’s 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 The exact date that it shut down is not known, but Jehan Neyron appeared at the meeting of the Aumône Générale on 15 March, 1541, to inform the rectors that he could not make his promised donation because of “plusieurs grans pertes” and that there were “guères de gens en son jeu.” His son sold the buildings to another merchant on 9 September, 1541. Dentzer, “Jehan Neyron,” 105-106. Rubys, Histoire véritable, 370, “[pour] la plupart des histoires du vieil et nouveau Testament, avec la farce au bout, pour recreer les assistants.” Dentzer, “Jehan Neyron,” 112. Neyron did gain the secular institutional support of the Aumône Générale for his theatre – backing with political clout in the city. He did this by promising 5 livres for every play that he staged. As noted above, however, he was not entirely able to follow through on this contract. See Graham A. Runnalls,“Sponsorship and Control in Medieval French Religious Drama, 1402-1548,” French Studies 51 (1997): 258-266. Davis, Society and Culture, 98. See “The Massacre in Paris” in Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross; and “The Rites of Violence” in Davis, Society and Culture. 20 neighbor taking on these roles, communities thus embodied characters and concepts that shaped both Christian ontology and societal mores. It should come as no surprise, then, that such theatre might directly instigate violence. Kevin Gould has explored a remarkable case of theatrical practice inflaming confessional conflicts between the basoche and the écoliers at the Collège de Guyenne from the 1530s to the 1550s. The Collège de Guyenne had been a bastion of humanism and was becoming a hotbed of Protestantism, such that many of the écoliers openly practiced Calvinism by 1551, even making a point of attacking local Catholic processions and masses by chanting French psalms.75 Bordeaux’s basoche was attached to the Confraternity of Saint-Yves, and its members were key representatives of the city’s Catholicism. The staple for both the écoliers and the basoche was initially traditional biblical tales and devotional songs, but by the 1540s, they favored morality plays and farces, through which they could attack opposing beliefs, institutions, and practices. These became so combative by 1544 that the parlement ruled their plays be vetted before performance. Instances of aggression nonetheless escalated in the 1550s: “At one Catholic performance at Libourne, in May 1555, attending Reformers attacked the basoche with clubs, claiming that much of the material was offensive to their church. Royal troops were needed to quell the ensuing riot.”76 By April 1556, a ban was imposed on “any play concerning religion, or the Christian faith, the veneration of Saints, and the institution of the Church”; by 1559, both groups had started patrolling the streets of Bordeaux in gangs, intent on fighting.77 Matters came to a head in 1561. As skirmishes increased, the écoliers were ordered to disband the militarystyle structure of cells that they had formed, and the Confraternity was banned from electing a new roi de la basoche. In response, the groups took up musical weaponry: Denied recourse to armed pursuits, the écoliers continued to vex the Catholics of Bordeaux by gathering on street corners and, on occasion, within the corridors of the parlement building itself: to chant the psalms of Clement Marot. While apparently a more peaceable activity, this was no less illegal, as an arret of 26 March 1561 had banned the singing of psalms anywhere within the walls of Bordeaux “sur peine de la hart.” Catholics living near the college felt especially aggrieved at this new phenomenon, reporting that “les escoliers et martinets, accompagnees de 400 a 500 personnes, chantoient les psaumes dans le cour du dit college, a quoy il ne pouvoit pourvoir.”78 Acts of confessional aggression within Bordeaux had thus mutated from theatricality, to physicality, to musicality. The centrality of theatre to the fabric of the community evinced in Bordeaux is similarly highlighted by the developments in Lille examined by Alan Knight.79 In order to stop the city’s rivalrous companies of young men from disturbing the peace (as they habitually did), Lille’s municipal authorities organized dramatic competitions as part of their 75 76 77 78 79 Kevin Gould, “‘Vivre et mourir en la religion ancienne, romaine, et catholique’: Catholic activism in south-west France, 1560-1570” (PhD. diss., University of Warwick, 2003), 44. Ibid., 46. Ibid., 47, “[A]ucunes pieces concernant la religion ou foi chretienne, la veneration des saintes et les institutions de l’Eglise.” Translation mine. Ibid., 49-50. Alan Knight, “Processional theatre and the rituals of social unity in Lille,” in Drama and Community, 99-109. 21 annual procession. Knight argues that the ritual of processing through the city streets fostered a sense of wholeness, since, “the presentation of biblical plays and tableaux vivants at the processions reinforced the town’s sense of its place and its participation in the broader Christian community both historically and geographically.”80 Initiated in the late fourteenth century, the approach to these dramatic activities changed as concerns with heresy grew in the early sixteenth century. By 1530, the city’s aldermen had taken over the processional theatre, greatly expanding the spectacle, and presenting an elaborate mimed Passion play that moved alongside the procession. By 1535, the aldermen preferred a more didactic approach, imposing “a reorganization of the tableaux vivants in the procession into 18 scenes from the New Testament accounts of the life of Jesus, pairing each scene with a prefiguring one from the Old Testament.”81 This processional theatre would elide with the theatre of martyrdom that I will examine in Chapter Two, as seven “Lutherans” were burned or beheaded in Lille’s main market square in 1533, the same square in which these plays were performed; one of these executions, in fact, took place on the eve of the procession.82 Producing such community theatre demanded sundry skills, from the play’s conception to its enactment; but what were integral (and involved the greatest number of people) were the skills of mimesis in the re-presentation of characters and figures. Since biblical stories were understood as historical events, mystère productions in particular required prosopographia, the impersonation or re-creation of a historical individual. As we have seen, mimesis was performed by community figures; we could say that their roles demanded handling key aspects of the Quintilian reduction of rhetoric – memoria, pronunciatio, actio. Regardless of whether such skills were viewed within the humanist paradigm of rhetoric, adequate techniques of mimesis were fundamental to such prosopographia. Recall that large-scale mystères were banned in Paris partly because of the lack of mastery over such techniques of representation, as the community actors slaughtered their Latin lines, and resorted to improvised gibberish. The holy subjects were at stake in these failures, as cat-calling hilarity ensued.83 The Pedagogy of Communitas Techniques of communitas were logically most explicit within pedagogical practice – an 80 81 82 83 Ibid., 109. Ibid., 108. Ibid., 107. Similarly, the Confrérie de la Passion in Rouen (chiefly bourgeois of the city) held a yearly procession to “honorer et glorifier le mystère de la Passion” on Maundy Thursday. In the last decade of the fifteenth century, they added mystère performances to their statutes. After 1498, their processions took a hiatus until 1543, when they were re-invigorated in order to combat the spreading heresy in the city; these annual theatrical processions continued consistently until 1562. Brown, Music in the French Secular Theatre, 35. The edict of 1548 followed earlier criticism of these performances: “Tant les entrepreneurs que les joueurs sont gens ignares, artisans mecaniques, ne sachant ni A ni B, qui oncques ne furent instruictz ni exercez en theatres et lieux publics a faire telz actes, et davantage n’ont lange diserte ni langage propre ni les accents de prononciation decente, ni aulcune intelligence de ce qu’ils dient; tellement que le plus souvent advient que d’un mot ils en font trois; font point ou pause au milieu d’une proposition, ou autre geste, prolation ou accent contraires a ce qu’ils dient, dont souvent advient derision et clameur publicques dedans le theatre meme, tellement qu’au lieu de tourner a edification, leur jeu tourne a scandale et derision.” Quoted in Runnalls, “Religious Drama and the Printed Book,” 33. 22 issue, as noted above, that was high on the lists of many humanists. Pedagogy was also imbricated in the formation of Lyonnais identity, for the most important school in the city was the Collège de la Trinité, an institution that had been removed from its original administrative handlers, the Confrérie de la Trinité, in 1527 to become one of the first municipally-run schools in France.84 In its early years under the helm of the city council, the Collège struggled; though the school had attracted a number of talented humanist writers and educators, by 1538 the institution was in dire straits. Barthélemy Aneau had been hired as a teacher at the Collège in 1538, and he was selected as principal of the school in 1539; under his leadership, the Collège developed into a functioning humanist center.85 Long positioned as a backward-looking pedant, Aneau’s oeuvre has only recently begun to be attended to within literary scholarship.86 While originality and creativity have now come to the fore in his work, his use of traditional, “medieval” modes – particularly for pedagogical purposes – was also crucial to performance of the Lyonnais emotional community. Aneau’s output betrays a deep interest in a pedagogy defined by community. Perhaps most interesting (and most radical) in this regard is his fantastical novel, Alector, histoire fabuleuse (Lyon: Pierre Fradin, 1560), in which he explains his sense of community (“communauté”) as a body of people who live in peace, justice, and fellowship (“amytié”).87 Caroline Gates has argued convincingly that, rather than promoting monarchy and French identity, this novel articulates an anxiety about 84 85 86 87 This shift was primarily for financial reasons, as the Confrérie could no longer afford to run the school that they had instituted in 1519 in order to “illec estre faconnée et instruite leur postérité.” Georgette Brassart de Groër, Réforme et Contre-Réforme en France: Le collège de la Trinité au XVIe siècle à Lyon (Paris: Éditions Publisud, 1995), 11. In 1533 the city council named Claude de Cublize principal of the Collège; under his direction the instruction and organization at the school improved. He brought in Barthélemy Aneau as a teacher, as well as erudite thinkers such as Jean Pelisson, Florent Wilson, Claude Bigothier, Gilbert Ducher, and Charles de Sainte-Marthe. Cublize, however, was not able to enforce basic discipline within the institution, and the final end of this failing was the murder of a teacher in the school, a man named Bernod, in 1539. At this point, the city’s sons were pulled from the school by concerned parents, and the teachers began to vocally criticize their principal. The result was a call for a more respected and disciplined principal to head the school. Biot, Barthélemy Aneau, 12023. In this respect, Brigitte Biot’s work Barthélemy Aneau, régent de la Renaissance lyonnaise provides the most thorough and insightful analysis. Georgette Brassart de Groër also addresses Aneau’s literary as well as pedagogical oeuvre in Le collège de la Trinité au XVIe siècle, 29-49. Caroline Radmila Gates recently produced a dissertation that puts Aneau’s novel, Alector, in dialogue with what she identifies as “journey literature” by Du Bellay and Rabelais, in “The Journey Literature of Rabelais, Du Bellay, and Aneau: Visions of Community in Mid-Sixteenth-Century France” (PhD diss., University of Virginia, 2013). Her work was preceded by Fontaine’s exploration of Alector as a nationalist novel influenced by prisca theologia, first argued in Alector, de Barthélemy Aneau, ou les aventure Roman après Rabelais (Genève: Droz, 1984). Aneau has long been read against Du Bellay – though perhaps less creatively – because of his (anonymously published) Quintil Horatian (1551) that attacked Du Bellay’s La deffence et illustration de la langue françoyse (1549). Analyses of this debate have generally presented Du Bellay’s arguments in a favorable light, given his position as one of the poetic greats of the century. On the Quintil Horatian and La deffence et illustration de la langue françoyse, see, for example, W.L. Wiley, “The French Renaissance Gallicized: An Emphasis on National Tradition,” Studies in Philology 34 (1937): 248-59. The negative characterization of Aneau as a conservative goes back at least to A. Baur, Maurice Scève et la Renaissance lyonnaise (Paris: Honoré Champion, 1908), and is similarly presented in A.M. Schmidt, “Les Poètes lyonnais du XVIe siècle,” Information Littéraire 4 (1952): 90-95. Setting up a precedent for editorial pairing, Henri Chamard’s edition of Du Bellay’s text also reprints Aneau’s critique in La deffence et illustration de la langue françoyse (Paris: M. Didier, 1948). Aneau, Alector, 100-101. 23 social relations in France, wrestling with “the possibility or impossibility of realizing communal ideals.”88 Part of a growing trend of journey literature, Alector weaves the tale of a father’s (900year-old Franc-Gal) search for his son (Alector). The story begins in media res with Alector having just escaped through his lover’s window, into a courtyard where her brothers and servants attack him; he survives, but she is killed. Put on trial for murder, Alector is sentenced to fight a gargantuan serpent that the community normally pacifies with a weekly human sacrifice. The majority of the novel features a conversation between the high priest of Orb and Franc-Gal, who meet on the coast. Franc-Gal tells the high priest the story of his years circling the globe on a flying hippopotamus, partly on a quest to find the Sovereign Temple, and also to encounter the people of the world. Franc-Gal finally meets Alector, who defeats the giant serpent; and, in the end, Franc-Gal dies in Orb’s Temple, satisfied at having completed his journey. Always the teacher, Aneau advises his reader to attend to the serious qualities of the work, which, as a fable, contains an underlying meaning.89 Orb, in fact, represents Aneau’s ideal imagined community, which he conceives as a Republic. Aneau offers detailed descriptions of the institutional and social apparatuses of this Republic, programmatically laying out a vision of community structures and practices. While there may be some descriptive similarities between the city of Orb and Lyon, the overarching theme is one of universalization – the sense that this could be any community, and, for the sake of balance and harmony, it should be all communities.90 This theme also extends into the broader narrative of the novel; as Gates contends, Franc-Gal’s journeys “portray a shared human experience in their figuration of the human condition, social values, and a universal community.”91 Aneau’s political influence, however, was both limited to Lyon, and pedagogical, in a Platonic or Aristotelian sense; as the principal of the Collège de la Trinité, Aneau oversaw the formation of many of the enfants de la ville. Frequenting master-printers, attacking merchantbankers in his Alector, and helping to organize major civic events, Aneau was alert to the economic-political functions of the city. While he imagined an ideal Republic in his fiction writing, he would have had an intimate grasp of Lyon’s extant structure, wherein the sons of the city’s elite would retain political power, and go on to positions on the city council, or the Aumône Générale.92 Lyon was a notably self-governing city, but the oligarchical tendencies of this governance were deeply entrenched. Striving towards a realistic ideal, then, meant 88 89 90 91 92 She contends that this unease is also the general timbre in Rabelais’ Quart Livre of Gargantua, as well as Du Bellay’s Regrets. Gates, “The Journey Literature of Rabelais, Du Bellay, and Aneau,” 17. In his preface he explains his designation of histoire fabuleuse: “Laquelle à mon advis est une histoire fabuleuse couvrant quelque sense mythologique, toutesfois bien dramatique et d’honeste invention, d’artificielle varieté et meslange de choses en partie plaisantes, en partie graves et admirable, et quelque fois meslées, plus toutesfois tenans de la Tragique que de la Comique.” Aneau, Alector, 10-11. On the similarities between Orb and Aneau’s contemporary Lyon, see Brigitte Biot, “De Lyon à Orbe ou de l’évocation de réalités lyonnises à l’expression d’aspirations politiques dans l’oeuvre littéraire d’Aneau,” Bulletin de l’Association d’étude sur l’humanisme, la réforme et la renaissance 47 (1998): 73-91. Biot also notes that, imitating Rabelais’ ideal community of the Abbé de Thélème, Aneau offers a full description of Orbe at the end of his Alector. Gates, “The Journey Literature of Rabelais, Du Bellay, and Aneau,” 172. Aneau’s universalism follows patterns similar to Erasmus, Buchanan, and Thomas More. Summarizing the power structure of the city, Jacqueline Boucher states: “Entre 1540 et 1559 dix-sept familles du patriciat, issu des affaires, occupent environ la motié des charges municipales […] Le menu peuple […] sont écartés et de rares riches étrangers y sont admis. Les trois quarts des conseillers sont pris au sein de cinquante familles qui sont les plus imposées de la ville.” Vivre à Lyon au XVIe siècle, 7. 24 developing a humanistic pedagogical system that trained this local elite as philosophers, as per Plato’s dictum. At the same time, it meant integrating students from most layers of Lyon’s diverse social strata into the Collège community, for the city council paid for Lyonnais children from the poorer classes to attend the institution.93 Aneau had attained his position as principal of the Collège by presenting the city council with a Formulaire et Institution du Collège de la Trinité de Lyon that systematically laid out his pedagogical scheme.94 In it, he planned for classes to be divided progressively, and for students to be evaluated at the end of each year before moving onto a higher class; a competitive meritocracy would be encouraged through contests; and corporal punishment would be frowned upon. Aneau also emphasized the key role of the principal for the moral surveillance of the Collège in the Formulaire, and dictated that students would first learn to speak “good Lyonnais, rather than becoming habituated to a horrible and barbaric Latin.”95 Aneau thus positioned himself as the primary disciplinary figure for the Collège; and by insisting that the students first be instructed in French, rather than Latin, Aneau made a substantial departure from the tenets of Erasmian education, which promoted Latin as the ideal language for primary education because of its logical constructions, the phonetic relationship between written and spoken language, and its literary value. More to the point for this study, Aneau recommended instruction in the local dialect – “bon lionnois” – rather than “bon françois.” Indeed, Aneau was invested in educational models geared to civic identity, something that becomes clear in any analysis of the theatrical pieces that he had printed in Lyon, most of which were published after they were performed at the Collège de la Trinité: the Chant Natal (Sébastien Gryphe, 1539), Lyon Marchant (Pierre de Tours, 1542), and Genethliac (Godefroy Beringen, 1559). The least musical of this trio, Lyon Marchant, is the most blatantly Lyonnais, as is suggested by the full title of the print: Lyon Marchant, satyre françoise sur la comparaison de Paris, Rohan, Lyon, Orléans et sur les choses mémorables depuys l’an mil cinq cens vint quatre, soubz allégories et énigmes par personnages mysticques: jouée au Collège de la Trinité à Lyon, 1541. The title page also informs us that the action, which involves a comparison between major cities in France (where, of course, Lyon proves to be the greatest), is allegorical and enigmatic. Indeed, while presenting a network of localized references, as well as allusions to recent political and military events, the play’s dialogue is laden with intricate plays on words, making the text difficult for the contemporary reader to penetrate. Brigitte Biot describes Aneau’s plays as largely old-fashioned and based on medieval practices: “It is not Aneau’s theatre that will give us the impression that he had the makings of a good author! His Chant Natal is a mystère in the medieval style [… and] his Lyon Marchant is a sort of review saturated with emblems and allegories and which, in a lot of ways, recalls the soties-rebus of the Middle Ages.”96 Lyon Marchant does, indeed, present allegorical personages 93 94 95 96 Dobbins refers to the Archives Communales, CC956, fol. 89r., for accounts between 1540 and 1544 of the city council paying tuition fees of two sous and two deniers a month per student. Music in Renaissance Lyon, 59. See the edition provided in Brigitte Biot, “Un Project Innovant Pour un Collège Humaniste: Le Formulaire et Institution du Collège de la Trinité de Lyon par Barthélemy Aneau (4 mai 1540): Edition intégral et commentaire,” Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 56 (1994): 445-464. Ibid., 449, “ilz parlent bon lionnois que de s’acoustumer à mauvays et barbare latin.” All translations of Aneau’s Formulaire are my own. Biot, Barthélemy Aneau, 32, “Ce n’est pas le théâtre de B. Aneau qui nous donnera l’impression d’avoir affaire à un bon écrivain! Son Chant Natal est un mystère à la mode médiévale [… et] Lyon Marchant est une sorte de revue saturée d’emblèmes et d’allégories et qui rappelle, par bien des aspects, les ‘soties-rebus’ du Moyen Age.” 25 in the moralité tradition; such play with established “medieval” practice is likewise apparent in the Chant Natal, which suggests that Aneau may have deliberately employed genres already familiar to his students. Lyon Marchant, in particular, seems keyed to Aneau’s educational values, since it enabled students to develop more advanced understandings of the French (or “lionnois”) language, to express themselves beautifully in their mother tongue, and to refine their gestures while on stage. The play opens musically, as Arion sings an air that was “piteux, et lamentable, comme Doulce Memoire, ou aultre.”97 “Doulce Memoire,” of course, referred to Francis I’s poem, which was most famously set polyphonically by Pierre Regnault “dit Sandrin,” and available by this time in Lyon in a recent print by Moderne.98 There was pleasure to be gained from hearing the polysemic phrases figured in this play, as is apparent in Arion’s opening monologue that followed his air: Je quicte tout, tabouring & bedons Haultbois, bourdons, fleuste, rebec, sonnette, Harpe, Angeli, Luz, Manicordions Du accordions, Danses, & Tordions, Psalterions, Virginal, Espinete, Jeu d’orgue honnesté, aubade, Chansonnete Bergeronnete, & Virlay, & Mottel, Et tout mot tel, fors que se lay mortel, Que sans martel jadis forgea Tristan, Car esprouvé j’ay par trop maint triste an.99 I am giving up all of it, the small & large drums The oboe, bagpipes, flute, rebec, bells, The Harp, Angeli, Lute, Manicordions, Accordions, Dances, and Tordions, Psaltery, Virginal, Spinet, Honest organ playing, aubade, Chansonnete, Bergeronnete, & Virelay, & Motet, And all such words, except for this deathly lai That Tristan forged without a hammer For I have endured too many sad years. A wonderful example of rhetorical copia, this passage illustrates the linguistic and performative mastery that such speech demanded. In order for the rhétoriqueur rimes equivoquées (wherein the rhymes themselves were puns) to be grasped by the audience, the student performer would 97 98 99 Translation mine. Aneau, Lyon Marchant, Aiii. “Doulce mémoire” was printed in the first book of the Parangon des Chansons series, Le Parangon des Chansons Contenant plusieurs nouvelles & delectables chansons que oncques ne furent imprimees au singulier prouffit & delectation des Musiciens (Lyon: Moderne, 1538). The same musical setting was subsequently published in Paris in Attaingnant’s 1538 XXVII Chansons. Aneau, Lyon Marchant, Aiii. 26 have had to present their lines with appropriate diction, movements, and timing: for example, making gestures to differentiate “Mottel / mot tel / mortel / martel,” or pausing correctly to designate “Tristan” from “triste an.”100 The complex linguistic enigmas that constitute this play are linked to one of Aneau’s focal interests: emblems. The emblem book took off in France during an explosion of enthusiasm for printed illustrations – some have called it a “Golden Age” – from around the 1530s to 1550s.101 Emblem books demanded a precise kind of engagement from their audience, one that activated a network of urban and institutional references. This print form followed on the heels of the rediscovery of ancient hieroglyphics and advocated a universal moral code, appealing in particular to the “ancients” for their authority.102 Indeed, the emblem book in the sixteenth century remained a humanistic enterprise, rarely being brought into the brawl of religious polemic. Emblem books in France, which dominated European production in its early decades, took their material from the everyday world, biblical stories, or commonly known classical references. And while emblem books quickly became associated with the images that they printed, the first Emblemata by Alciati was actually planned as an entirely textual project: the images were the invention of the printer. In fact, modern scholars have deemed the images printed in Alciati’s emblems “unnecessary” to the comprehension of said emblems, for his short poetic texts enable the reader to create an image in their mind’s eye.103 The word-image combination nonetheless became characteristic of the emblem book, offering an aesthetic platform for meditation on moral issues. Writers and publishers of emblem books stressed their dual function as instruments of pleasure and edification.104 Emblem books demanded techniques of contemplation that solicited acts of memoria, as references were registered and epigrammatic poems memorized. Until the Jesuits picked up the emblem book as a form of propaganda in the seventeenth century, it remained a genre pragmatically oriented to the cultivation of a universal moral communitas. Aneau became a key figure in the production of emblem books in France, providing an early French translation of Alciati’s Emblemata, first printed by Macé Bonhomme in Lyon in 1549.105 For Aneau, as well as many others involved in their creation, emblem books were part of a broader interest in printing images. The same printers who released emblem books also disseminated old and new Testaments, bestiaries, Aesop’s Fables and editions of Ovid’s Metamorphoses that aimed at moralizing through similar text-image combinations. In the same year that he translated Alciati’s Emblemata, Aneau produced an illustrated bestiary, the Decades de Description, Forme, et Vertu Naturelle des Animaux, tant raisonable que brutz (Lyon: Balthazar Arnoullet, 1549) and helped to translate an edition of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Aneau had his own collection of emblems printed in both Latin and French, the Picta poesis and the 100 101 102 103 104 105 Estelle Doudet also discusses the pedagogy of this play in greater detail, “Pédagogie de l’énigme: Le Lyon Marchant de Barthélemy Aneau (1541),” Cahiers de recherches médiévales et humanistes 22 (2011): 395-411 at 400. Alison Saunders, “Picta Poesis: the Relationship between Figure and Text in the Sixteenth-Century French Emblem Book,” Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 48 (1986): 621-652 at 628. Alison Saunders, “The sixteenth-century French emblem book as a form of religious literature,” in The Sixteenth-Century French Religious Book, 40. Daniel Russell, “Alciati’s Emblems in Renaissance France,” Renaissance Quarterly 34 (1981): 534-554. Saunders, “The sixteenth-century French Emblem Book,” 40. This translation was clearly popular, as it was re-issued in at least eleven different editions in Paris and Lyon until 1574. 27 Imagination poetique, respectively, both issued in 1556 in Lyon by Macé Bonhomme. The creative process for these latter prints represented a curious reversal of Alciati’s emblems – a difference that points to how the concept of the emblem book in France had shifted by this point. According to Aneau’s “Preface de Cause,” he was spurred on to fashion his Imagination poetique because he had come across little woodcut figures in Macé Bonhomme’s shop one day. Bonhomme, Aneau tells us, informed him that the woodcuts had no accompanying inscriptions that he knew of. So Aneau promised to transform these images from “mute and dead” to “speaking and living, breathing a soul into them, through lively poetry.”106 Given that a number of these woodcuts had already been used by Macé Bonhomme for Ovid’s Metamorphoses, Book Three of which had been translated by Aneau, the story reported in the preface is unbelievable. While he may have told a tall tale about the woodcuts, the poetic process was nevertheless imaginative, since Aneau produced completely novel readings of the images originally used for Ovid’s Metamorphoses.107 Aneau’s introductory narrative thus signaled a process that prized image over word as the generative force for the book; it also relayed to the reader a sense of excavating buried treasure: “I brought back to light and life images that had been buried and mute.”108 Highlighting, of course, the humanist interest in the re-discovery of previously lost knowledge, this approach of inventively positioning the new as old manifests all over Aneau’s oeuvre, as in the “found fragments” (of his invention) that open his Alector.109 One of the foremost French emblem scholars, Alison Saunders, underlines the pedagogical character of Aneau’s emblems, calling him “the most didactic of all the emblem writers.”110 As with most emblem books of the period, Aneau’s set up moral lessons, beginning as they do with a moralizing title. Unlike several other emblem books, the images in Aneau’s prints are integral to comprehending the entire sense of the emblems. The emblems must be read in order, from title, to image, to poem, for his short verses provide an analysis of the moral lesson, rather than setting the scene.111 Given his didactic approach, links to existing modes of edification would have been commonsensical; indeed, a number of Aneau’s emblems make use of simultaneous scenes that replicate “medieval” practices of staging. As noted above, the moralizing theatre of the mystères and moralités were divided into three separate “mansions” so that hell, earth, and heaven could be represented at the same time. Such scenes allowed for 106 107 108 109 110 111 Barthélemy Aneau, Imagination poetique (Lyon: Bonhomme,1552), 6, “Jay privée familiarité à Mace Bonhomme Imprimmeur Lyonnois, par laquelle estant un jour en sa maison, trouvay quelques petite figures pourtraictes, & traillée, demandant à quoy elles servoient: me respondit, A rien. Pour n’avoir point d’inscriptions propres à icelles, ou si aucunes en avoit eues, icelles estre perdues pour luy. A lors je estimant que sans cause n’avoient esté faictes, luy promis que de muetes, & mortes, je les rendroie parlantes, & vives: leur inspirant ame, par vive Poësie.” Alison Saunders, “The influence of Ovid in a sixteenth-century emblem book: Barthélemy Aneau’s Imagination poetique,” Nottingham French Studies 16 (1977): 1-18. Ibid., 8, “Affin que les images ensevelies, & muetes, je ramenasse en lumiere & vie, exercasse mon esprit, satisfisse aux yeux, & aux espritz des lecteurs.” The full title of the novel indexes this supposed unearthing: Alector: histoire fabuleuse, Traduicte en Fra[n]çois d’un fragment divers, trouvé non entier, mais entrerompu, & sans forme de principe. In his dedicatory preface to Catherine de Coq, Aneau elaborates on this excavation, claiming that he had discovered an ancient “piece rompu” – pieces of a story – which he had assembled and translated from multiple languages into French. He begins his novel with three short “ancient” fragments that introduce mythological and multiform creatures that recur throughout his tale. Gates, “The Journey Literature of Rabelais, Du Bellay, and Aneau,” 165. Saunders, “Picta poesis,” 646. Ibid. 28 comparisons between earthly and immortal life – for example, by representing Herod’s body being revered on earth with great funeral celebrations while his soul was tortured in hell. Transposing this representational space into the frame of Greek legends, Aneau offered a tripartite division between “Man, Heroes, Gods” in his emblem “Difference des Raisonnables Essences” (see Figure 1.1). In the emblem “Conversion de l’Amour a l’Estude des Lettres” such simultaneous scenes are depicted in theatrical movement, as a young satyr chases an nymph into the reeds along a marsh; he is then drawn to the harmony of the reeds, and invents a (pan) flute; the nymph, perceiving that she is no longer being threatened by the satyr’s approaches then runs through the fields “like a wild cow.” As in the triple stages of the theatre, this is all presented within the same visible frame (see Figure 1.2). The inter-referentiality between theatrical practices and emblem books indexes a tendency for techniques of communitas to be used fluidly across what we might now designate as genre categories. Given that both theatre pieces (mystères, miracles, moralités) and emblems aimed to edify, it was pragmatic to fix standard dramatic procedures (e.g. simultaneous representation) into the representational format of emblems. Figure 1.1: “Difference des Raisonnables Essences,” Aneau, Imagination poetique (1552) 29 Figure 1.2: “Conversion de l’Amour a l’Estude des Lettres” Aneau, Imagination poetique (1552) While Aneau did not create these images, his poetic imagination wove meaning out of coexisting scenes, much like the common forms of community theatre in France. Emblems could even refer explicitly to theatrical practice, as with Georgette de Montenay’s 1571 Protestant emblems, which painted violent biblical episodes.112 One in particular, “De Plenitudine Eius,” depicted Christ as a fountain quenching the thirst of those around with the blood pouring from his wounds (see Figure 1.3). The flocks of Christians who attended Passion plays would have been acquainted with such gory scenes from productions that included stage machinery devised of hidden nozzles and tubing that squirted liters of Christ’s blood from his lesions.113` Starting from the most common ancient and biblical subjects, emblems thus drew on the power of the familiar – but such familiarity did not necessarily imply monotony. For, the use of theatrical presentational techniques and topics was driven by affective values that multiplied with repetition. By referencing dramatic practices, emblems tapped into the stimulating liminal communitas of theatrical production. As the pedagogically and politically conscious principal of the Collège, Aneau sowed his didactic practices with techniques of communitas. It should come as no surprise that Aneau was asked by the Lyonnais city council to help create emblematic inscriptions for the monuments and statues erected along the entry route, as well as those that 112 113 Emblems ou Devises Chrestiennes Composees par Damoiselle Georgette de Montenay (Lyon: Jean Marcorelle, 1571). While these specific references come from Corpus Christi plays in Lucerne and Freiburg im Breisgau, we do know that expenditures were made for the mechanics of theatre in France as well. Ehrstine, Theatre, Culture, and Community, 17. 30 were offered as gifts to King Henry II and Queen Catherine de Medici in 1548. For the latter project, he effectively helped to set the city’s theatrics of communitas in stone.114 Figure 1.3: “De Plenitudine Eius” Emblem Montenay, Emblems ou Devises Chrestiennes (1571) Nativity Plays for Collège Boys The overlaps between theatrical practices and new print genres like emblems are understandable in the case of an author such as Aneau, who was also keenly engaged in dramatic production. As noted above, his theatre works have largely been considered backward looking; the enigmatic qualities of Lyon Marchant, for one, were strongly related to medieval moralité plays, with their allegorical figures.115 The Chant Natal, also performed by the Collège de la 114 115 On Aneau’s role in designing such inscriptions (alongside Scève and Du Choul), see Cooper, The Entry of Henry II into Lyon, 62-78. As a notable counterpoint, C.A. Mayer offers an evaluation of Lyon Marchant as a humanist experiment that sought to import the Greek dramatic genre of the satyr-play into French theatre in “‘Satyre’ as a dramatic genre,” Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 13 (1951): 327-33. Carol Chapman carries this further in “French Renaissance Dramatic Society: The Plays of Barthélemy Aneau,” in En marge du classicisme: essays on the French Theatre From the Renaissance to the Enlightenment, eds. Alan Howe and Richard Waller (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1987), correcting aspects of Mayer’s analysis (namely, that Lyon Marchant does not 31 Trinité, was even more obviously derived from the medieval mystère play tradition, as is made explicit in its full title: Chant Natal contenant sept noelz, un chant pastoural, et ung chant royal, avec ung mystère de la Nativité par personnages: composez en imitation verbale et musicale de diverses chansons, recueilliz sur l’Escripture Saincte, et d’icelle illustrez (Lyon: Gryphe, 1539). The title of the print, in fact, captured the formulas of several genres with broad market appeal: first, it proffered a list of musical genres (noelz, chant pastoural, chant royal, mystère, chansons); second, it referenced singable contrafacta, songs “composed to the tune of ...” that were growing in popularity in urban centers; and third, it called out to an audience seeking religious content by announcing that it was “collected around Holy Scripture, which it illustrates.” The Chant Natal follows the structure suggested by the cover page, moving from five noels, to a “Chant Pastoural” (a shepherds’ song), and a “Noel branlant,” a dance. Then begins the Mystere de la Nativite de nostre Seigneur Jesuschrist: par personnages sur divers chants de plusieurs chansons – the play proper. Notably, the Mystere is not particularly marked out within the print, continuing halfway down the same page on which the “Noel branlant” finished. What is most strikingly continuous, however, are the musical bases of the Mystere – for, as with the noels, each section of the play is based on a popular song.116 The dedicatory dixain at the beginning of the Chant Natal suggests that the play was indeed performed, though there has been minor debate as to whether the entire text was presented as part of the play, or whether only the section labeled as the mystère was staged.117 Carol Chapman has argued that the noels would have been integrated into the production, though not in the same order as it was printed; she suggests that the “Chant pastoural” in particular points to this possibility, because shepherds’ scenes were so popular that they were inserted all over the theatrical repertoire, including mystères that were not part of the Nativity cycle.118 The incorporation of the noels into the drama would have produced narrative repetition, as all of the events in the “Chant Pastoural” are also depicted within the Mystere. Given the popularity of such pastoral scenes, this would not have been an issue for a contemporary audience; moreover, it would have provided a sort of expressive copia.119 The entire Chant Natal, in fact, fully assimilates popular forms common to Nativity plays, but adapts them to the type of elite display sought in the public theatre of the Collège. For one, Aneau heartily deploys the adored shepherd and shepherdess scenes that, in popular plays, 116 117 118 119 follow Donatus’ definition of a satyr-play), and arguing that Lyon Marchant is an attempt to produce a French version of Euripides’ Cyclops. Tellingly, Chapman also claims: “[...] if today the Lyon Marchant strikes us as bizarre it is because it endeavours to combine tradition with innovation, both ends of the spectrum of college theatre as it existed in Aneau’s day.” Ibid., 19. Because of this feature, nineteenth-century scholars enthusiastically claimed that the Chant Natal was the first example of French opera, or the origins of the opéra-comique. This was essentially all of the scholarly attention that the print had received until recently. See, respectively, Claudius Brouchoud, Les Origines du théâtre de Lyon (Lyon, 1865), 42; and A.F. Delandine, Bibliothèque d Lyon: Catalogue des livres qu’elle renferme dans la section du théâtre (Paris: Renouard, [1819]), 11. John Gerig assumes that the whole text was performed theatrically. See “Barthélemy Aneau: A Study in Humanism,” Romantic Review 1 (1910): 181-207 at 196-200. V.-L. Saulnier takes a less definitive stance in “Le Théâtre de Barthélemy Aneau,” in Mélanges d’histoire du théâtre du Moyen-Age et de la Renaissance offert à Gustave Cohen, professeur honoraire en Sorbonne (Paris: Librairie Nizet, 1950), 152-53. Chapman, “French Renaissance Dramatic Society,” 8. On the issue of staging noels, the title page of this publication tellingly designates the entire print as a Chant Natal; it is said to “contain” noels, a chant pastoural, and a chant royal, along “with” a mystère. The mystère and the noels were thus all part of the Chant Natal as a whole. 32 were often frisky and comical, sometimes demeaning of rural people, and full of sexual innuendos and puns. While we might expect Aneau to attenuate the presence of these characters, he makes full use of these humorous commonplaces throughout his bucolic scenes. In the “Chant Pastoural,” for example, the shepherdess Rachel slips and falls on the ice, and is told to “hide her ass” because she is not wearing any undergarments; she invites the shepherd Raguel to cover her, because, if her rear is up in the air, it is because she is lacking a good horse (to mount): RAGUEL. Mais garde sur la glace Tomber, car il verglace. Abas: debout: trop les jambes tu haulses, Cache ton cul, car tu n’as point de chaulses. RACHEL. Couvre moy doncq’ tombée a la renverse, Gentil bergier, si j’ay la cuisse haulte: Car bien souvent telle charrette verse, Par trop avoir d’ung bon lymonnier fault.120 RAGUEL. But be careful on the ice, Not to fall, because there is black ice. Fall down: stand up: your legs are up [in the air] too much, Hide your ass, because you’re not wearing knickers. RACHEL. Cover me, for I’ve fallen backwards, Gentle shepherd, if my rear is pointing upwards: Because often such a cart will capsize, For lack of a good horse. This dialogue is sung “Sur le chant, et le verbe” of “Vous perdez temps,” a poem by Clément Marot, that had been set polyphonically by this time by both Sermisy and Arcadelt.121 The use of popular tunes as timbres throughout this print followed from the basic noel custom – but the very prevalence of contrafactual practice in the noel genre makes it notable as a means of domestication, as a way of creating a sense of local cultural currency. The “Noel branlant” that immediately follows this shepherd/shepherdess song is significant in this respect, for it is based on the dance timbre “Barptholemy mon bel amy.” The song’s title suggests that the shepherds and shepherdesses might have danced a branle, one of the more popular contemporary dance forms, in performance. The shepherd and shepherdess scenes were so often bodily and bawdy, features that no doubt contributed to their popularity; Aneau would have missed out on much of the appeal of the Nativity genre had he not included such scenes, or had he neglected to 120 121 Chant Natal, “Chant Pastoural,” lines 47-55. The Sermisy setting was printed in Pierre Attaingnant’s Tiers Livre (Paris, 1538), and the Arcadelt setting had appeared in Moderne’s Parangon des Chansons series (Lyon, 1538), Book Two. 33 incorporate locally-understood bucolic celebratory references, such as the branle. As was true for nativity plays generally, Aneau’s pastoral sequences stage scenes full of such anachronisms as that of ancient shepherds dancing the French branle. In the “Annunciation aux pasteurs” in the Mystere as well, the second shepherd plans to give Jesus a piece of soft cheese, and the third shepherd plans to offer him his pipes that he bought under the Saône bridge for a “beau patard” during the All Saint’s fair the other day.122 Anachronisms also crop up in depictions of the holy family. As noted above, mystères on the Nativity commonly highlighted the age discrepancy between Mary and Joseph, casting the holy family in a way that reflected contemporary social norms. Similarly, in Aneau’s play, to the tune of “Le plus souvent tant il m’ennuye,” Joseph petitions an innkeeper for a place to stay; he rebukes Joseph and calls him an old man that looks like a shepherd, declaring that his inn is not for the poor, and that the couple should seek shelter at the “hospital” – surely referencing the Hôpital on the Rhône bridge that provided short-term sanctuary to pilgrims and vagrants.123 These features in Aneau’s Mystere de la Nativité were based on extant practices in the substantially longer community mystère tradition. Such miniature versions were becoming more prevalent when Aneau’s play was published, however, as compact mystères were being performed around the same time in Jehan Neyron’s theatre, referenced above. Shorter mystère plays of this variety would likely have held a wide appeal for other schools in France as well, many of which staged a play at the beginning of the year, or for important occasions.124 Intriguingly, Aneau’s Chant Natal was predated by another printed mystère sequence that similarly foregrounded noels in its title, and indexed that it was designed for school children: Se ensuyvent les nouelz nouvaulx de ce present an mil cinq cens et douze dont en y a plusieurs notez a deux parties dont l’une n’es que le plaint chant. Avec quatre histoires par personnaiges sur quatre evangilles de l’Advent a jouer par les petis enfans les quatre dimenches dudit Advent. Composez par maistre Françoys Briand, maistre des escolles de Sainct Benoist en la cité du Mans (c. 1504-06).125 A play for “petis enfans,” these pieces would have been performed by children under the age of twelve in attendance at a “petite école” of the era; as Katell Lavéant suggests, the ages of the students explains why the Saint Benoist schoolmaster, François Briand, chose French texts.126 Aneau’s Chant Natal would similarly have been performed by the lower grades, following from his provision that students begin their education in “bon lionnois.” The plays differ, however, according to the educational context for which they were conceived: Briand taught within the medieval Cathedral school system, while Aneau, of course, ran a secular, municipally-funded collège. As a result of these distinct institutional contexts, Briand drew his texts from the liturgy, and the plays were composed for performance on the four Sundays of Advent; Aneau, on the other hand, drew his texts for the Chant Natal from the bestknown Gospel passages describing the birth and adoration of Jesus, and the plays were likely 122 123 124 125 126 Chant Natal, “L’Annunciation aux pasteurs,” lines 30-40. Ibid., Mystere, lines 72-79. Mathieu Ferrand, “Le Théâtre des Collèges, la formation des étudiants et la transmission des savoirs aux xve et xvie siècles,” Camenulae 3 (2009): 1-11 at 1. The only copy of Briand’s play that had survived has unfortunately disappeared from the archives of the Bibliothèque Communale de Bourg-en-Bresse. It has, however, been conserved through a twentieth-century edition by Henri Chardon, Nouelz nouvaulx de ce présent an mil cinq cens et douze (Paris: H. Champion; and Le Mans: A. de Saint-Denis, 1904). Katell Lavéant, “Contexte et réception du théâtre scolaire du Noël: De François Briand à Barthélemy Aneau,” Cahiers de recherches médiévales et humanistes 22 (2011): 379-393 at 381. 34 staged in a secular setting.127 Differences aside, the fact that both of these pedagogues went to the effort of publishing these plays stresses the importance that they placed on learning through performance. Aneau’s Chant Natal is especially telling in this regard, as it is printed with glosses that call out “teaching moments.”128 With rare exceptions,129 these glosses are biblical and almost entirely conventional.130 Some of the references are so obvious as to intimate that Aneau saw these marginalia as a tool for schoolteachers, a list of the essential biblical references that could be taught while learning the play. In this way, the print may have served to disseminate the educational practices of the Collège de la Trinité.131 The purpose behind the publication of the Chant Natal contrasts with that of Aneau’s Lyon Marchant, printed two years later, which, with its Gothic lettering and plethora of local references, probably targeted a local public. Indeed, this latter print may have been designed as a memento for the members of the city council who governed over the Collège and likely attended the performance. Aneau presented more than just bible lessons in the Chant Natal, however; he also provided epigrammatic explanatory forewords for each noel. The first noel, for example, is titled “Noel, ou Chant spirituel de l’Ame a Jesus Christ,” and the accompanying elaboration tells us that, therein, the soul “confesses the stains and ugliness of its sins: and the purgation of these by the grace of God, and the blood of Jesus Christ.”132 Aneau uses a timbre for this noel in “Imitation de Marot sur la chanson, Pourtant si je suys brunette, tant en la letre, que en la musicque.” In the second stanza, the text makes referential play with the first line, transforming “brunette” to “noirete” – and the marginal note “Nigra sum, sed formosa [...]” clarifies the allusion to the well-known Canticle from the Song of Songs. The text of the song that serves as the timbre, “Pourtant si je suys brunette,” was set polyphonically by Sermisy and printed in Lyon by Jacques Moderne in 1538133 – suggesting that the students who performed in this play may have been singing this noel in Sermisy’s four-part setting. Indeed, almost all of the timbres given by Aneau were available in polyphonic settings in the Parangon des Chansons series (Lyon: Moderne, 1538-43), most by Sermisy and many printed the year that the play was likely staged, in 1538.134 These timbres locate Aneau’s oeuvre within the social musical practices of a relatively elite society: the buyers and performers of polyphony. Tellingly, Aneau circled back to this repertoire when he had Arion sing Sandrin’s “Doulce Mémoire” in Lyon Marchant three years later.135 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 135 Ibid., 383. These glosses are not unique in the theatrical repertoire, as they appear as well in Nicolas de Chesnaye’s Condamnation de Banquet, for example, written sometime between 1503 and 1508 and printed repeatedly after 1508. Briand also included glosses in his Noelz nouvaulx, but his are distinctly more erudite, including references to various medieval and ancient authors, from Jacques de Voragine, to Augustine, to Petrarch. For example, a reference to the ninth Eclogue of Virgil’s Bucoliques in the Chant Pastoural. Lavéant also discusses this issue. Ibid., 391-393. Ibid. Aneau, Chant Natal, a2r, “[C]onfessant la macule et laidure de son peché: et la purgation d’icelluy en la grace de Dieu, et au sang de Jesus Christ.” Le Parangon des Chansons, Tiers Livre (Lyon: Jacques Moderne, 1538). Frank Dobbins identifies the sources of the timbres employed in Aneau’s Chant Natal in Music in Renaissance Lyon, 60-64. Six are on texts set by Sermisy and printed by Moderne in the 1530s, including, “Pourtant si je suys brunette,” “Content desir,” “C’est une dure departie,” “Jay le desir content,” “Vouz perdez temps,” and “Si mon travail.” Most of the poems are by Marot. Interestingly, the same setting of “Doulce mémoire” was also attributed to “Claudin” (Sermisy) in Pierre 35 The ludic quality of contrafacta – the joy of palimpsest – occupied a prominent role in Aneau’s educational efforts, for the entire Chant Natal is based on such play. The layered nature of contrafacta elicits techniques of memoria for both the singer, and, if adequately performed, the listener. For, in learning a contrafactum text like these noels, the timbre must first be recalled as a poetic-musical whole; the music must then be retained and reiterated, before the poetic meter and (often) rhyme is applied to the new text. Aneau’s noels emphasize this layered and ludic memoria, vacillating between using parallel rhymes, and fully replicating the word that terminates each line, as, for instance in his contrafactum “Noel en suite de la Royalle cha[n]son, Doulce memoire, en voix et parolle, reduisant en memoire a la pensée Chrestienne, le Benefice de Dieu envers l’homme,” based again on the poem attributed to Francis I that opened Lyon Marchant: Original Doulce mémoire en plaisir consommée, O siècle heureulx que cause tel scavoir, La fermeté de nous deux tant aymée, Qui à nos maulx a sceut si bien pourvoir Or maintenant a perdu son pouvoir, Rompant le but de ma seure espérance Servant d’exemple à tous piteux à veoir Fini le bien, le mal soudain commence. Contrafactum Doulce memoire en plaisir consommée, O siecle heureux, qui cause tel scavoir: Nativité de Dieu tant reclamee: Qui a noz maulx as sceu si bien pourveoir: Or maintenant as monstré ton povoir: Rompant le but d’infernale puissance, Donnant exemple a tous joyeux a veoir. Finy le mal, le bien soubdain commence.136 Aneau dedicated these playful contrafacta to his “disciples” – his students – in the preface to the Chant Natal, emphasizing that in singing such “chants Natalz” they would be in concert with celestial beings: Louez Enfans, le seigneur, et son nom: Les chants qu’a vous je dedie chantants Chant, mais quelz chants, de Poesie. Non, Mais chants Natalz, que requis ha le temps: Car des enfants, et petitz allaictants Dieu par leur bouche ha parfaict sa louange. Et tout esprit celestiel, ou ange Chante avec vous de l’enfant la naissance Qui faire vient de Dieu a l’homme eschange, Donnant a vous, et a tous innocence.137 136 137 Attaingnant’s 1538 XXVII Chansons, which followed on the heels of its initial appearance in Jacques Moderne’s first book of Le Parangon des Chansons of 1538. For a discussion of these relationships, see Frank Dobbins, “‘Doulce Mémoire’: A Study of a Parody Chanson,” Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association 96 (1969): 85-101. Aneau, Chant Natal, a3r. Ibid., a1v. 36 Praise God and his name, Children: Sing the songs that I have dedicated to you Songs, but what songs, of Poetry. No. But songs of the Nativity, to pass the time: Because children, and suckling babes God by their mouth receives perfect praise. And all the celestial spirits, or angels Sing with you about the birth of the child That made man from God, Bringing to you, and to everyone, innocence. Considering the musical focus of his pedagogy in these plays, it is surprising that musical training was so downplayed within Aneau’s curriculum. Music is only mentioned in connection with the afternoons of recreation that took place at the Collège on Thursdays: On Thursday after dinner, between the reparaison and the final lesson, they will have a space of three hours which they will spend in all manner of liberal games, prescribed by their masters and regents, like the jeux de perciée, [games] with pelotes and balls, number games, [blank in the document] […] singing [in polyphony, “chanter en musique”], and [playing] certain games where the children will compete against one another with stones or pieces of wood with Greek and Latin letters inscribed: and they will learn by playing these games, avoiding villainous games of gambling and risk. And in good weather they will sometimes be taken to [play in] the fields.138 Despite music not being scheduled into the daily curriculum, Aneau’s Institution is intriguing for its mention of “chanter en musique” – for, normally, this phrase referred to polyphonic performance. If some children had enough musical training to sing polyphonic music at playtime, they would surely have been capable of performing all of the noels in the Chant Natal. Given that almost all of the pieces that served as timbres in the Chant Natal had recently been printed in polyphonic settings in Lyon, and the likelihood that many of the better-off Collège students would have received some level of musical training, the possibility that polyphony was heard during the course of such productions looms large. Furthermore, the act of joining together in polyphonic song would have afforded another means of community building for these young boys. Aneau himself emphasized the merits of cultured music-making in his emblem “Pervertis Jugemens,” wherein King Midas “insanely” preferred pan’s raucous bagpipes to Phoebus’ lute. As punishment for his unsophisticated aesthetic preference, Phoebus made 138 Aneau in Brigitte Biot, “Un Projet Innovant pour un Collège Humaniste,” 449, “Le jeudi, après disner, auront depuis la reparaison jusques à la derniere leçon l’espace de trois heures, lesquelles ilz employeront en toutes manieres de jeux liberaulx que leur prescripront mesmes maistres et regens, comme à jeux de perciée, de pellotes et balles, à jeux de nombres, [blanc dans le document …], à chanter en musique, à certains gectz de pierres ou pièces de bois où seront entallées les lectres grecques et latines bactaillans les unes contre les autres; et ainsi en jeux mesmes aprandront, en ostans tous villains jeux caignardiers de perte ou de dangier. Et aucunesfoys seront menez aux champs par beau temps.” Translation mine. Emphasis mine. 37 King Midas sprout ass’ ears.139 The contrafact text to “Doulce Memoire” explored above would have offered a prime means of practicing balance amongst diverse parts, as voices moved from the shared rhythms of homophony to the interweaving lines of imitative polyphony (see Example 1.1).140 The phrase is keyed to the tenor’s opening descent to a D, from which the outer voices enter in quick succession at the minim, with a rolling gesture that enters on D (up an octave) in the cantus, and is imitated at the unison (down an octave) in the bass.141 The contratenor then enters after a semibreve, imitating the same gesture at the fourth. Within this thoroughly imitative phrase, the tenor voice alone leaps up an octave, and then falls decoratively. With all such lines, successful co-ordination depended upon performers’ abilities to tune into one another; even the nonimitative tenor must attend to the surrounding voices, in order to secure a solid entry after a dotted breve, on “consommer.” The shifting homophonic and imitative textures of chansons like “Doulce memoire” also meant that different voices moved into the foreground as they each took on the most audible moments of the imitative phrases. The polyphonic timbres of the Chant Natal – all chansons of the “Doulce memoire” variety – were ideal vehicles for learning how to successfully negotiate diverse roles and shifting expressive situations. Such numbers, in other words, exhibited a certain kind of unified co-ordination, one which made concerted use of an elite technique of communitas: polyphonic song. The Chant Natal thus organized the sticky form of musical practice, the long-popular noel, into an aristocratic display of Lyonnais communitas. Example 1.1: Opening phrase of Pierre Sandrin, “Doulce mémoire” from Le Parangon des Chansons (Lyon: Moderne, 1538) 139 140 141 Aneau, Imagination poetique, 120. Aneau’s contrafact replicates the initial line of the poem attributed to Francis I as set by Sandrin. I have halved the rhythms in all of my polyphonic examples in this dissertation (one minim = one semiminim). My analyses refer to the original rhythms. 38 Noels: Musical Theatre on the Move Aneau instructs his students to sing “chants Natalz” (in order to edify their innocent spirits) rather than “chants de Poesie” – a reference, it would seem, to songs like the originals that he had contrafacted. At issue here is not only the regulation of Christian pastimes, but also the question of how to make Christian humanist pedagogy palatable and digestible. Clearly, Aneau was making use of extant, interrelated genres – the noel and the mystère – that already boasted popular appeal. Aneau’s concern about the vernacular chanson was echoed by other humanists, as evinced by Erasmus’ invectives against chansons nouvelles in the Institutio christiani matrimonii of 1526, dedicated to Catherine of Aragon: Today, in certain countries, there is even a custom of publishing chansons nouvelles every year that the young girls learn by heart. The subject of these chansons basically goes like this: a husband is cuckolded by his wife, or a young virginal girl is lost to her parents, or [there is a] clandestine affair with a lover. And these actions are reported in such a way that they appear to have come about honestly, and we applaud this happy rascality. Added to such poisonous subjects are lyrics of such obscenity, through metaphors and allegories, that no one’s shame could be expressed more shamefully […] If there were vigilant laws, the authors of such tomfoolery would be whipped and sent to the executioner, and, instead of lascivious chansons, the singing of lugubrious verses would be enforced. But these people who publicly corrupt the youth make a living from their crime. We even find parents who believe that civility relies, in part, in their daughter not ignoring such songs.142 Erasmus goes on to stress the importance that the Ancients placed on music, how they considered it so dangerous that they created laws about the music permitted in a city. Further, [I]n the music in practice at home […] there used to exist a dramatic genre in which, without any words and simply through bodily gesticulation, actors could represent anything that they wanted. Likewise, in our contemporary chansons, even if the words were silenced, by attending to the music alone, we could still discover the dirty character of the theme.143 142 143 Erasmus quoted (translated to French from Latin) in Jean-Claude Margolin, Erasme et la musique (Paris: Librairie Philosophique J. Vrin, 1965), 16-17, “Aujourd’hui, dans certains pays, c’est même une coutume de publier tous les ans des chansons nouvelles, que les jeunes filles apprennent par coeur. Le sujet de ces chansons est à peu près de cette sorte: un mari trompé par sa femme, ou une jeune fille préservée en pure perte par ses parents, ou encore une coucherie clandestine avec un amant. Et ces actions sont rapportées d’une façon telle qu’elles paraissent avoit été accomplies honnêtement, et l’on applaudit à l’heureuse scélératesse. A des sujets empoisonnés viennent s’ajouter des paroles d’une telle obscénité par le moyen de métaphores et d’allégories que la honte en personne ne pourrait s’exprimer plus honeusement […] Si les lois étaient vigilantes, les auteurs de telle pitreries devraient être frappés à coups de fouet et soumis au bourreau, et, au lieu de chansons lascives, contraints à chanter des refrains lugubres. Mais ces gens qui corrompent publiquement la jeunesse vivent de leur crime. On trouve même des parents pour croire que la civilité consiste, pour une part, en ce que leur fille n’ignore pas de tels chants.” Translation from French mine. Ibid., 17, “[D]ans la musique qui se pratique chez nous il existait jadis un genre d’action dramatique qui, sans 39 I quote these passages at length because of the depth with which they address issues directly pertinent to noel practice. According to Erasmus, chansons nouvelles that told lewd stories were printed every year, and young girls quickly consumed and memorized them. This in itself is suggestive of an approach to contrafacta wherein the techniques of memoria were immediately enacted, and the contrafacted text was absorbed efficiently into oral circulation. What is particularly striking, however, is Erasmus’ discussion of “modern songs” cleansed of their poisonous words – his sense that the “dirty” character of the song’s theme could still be discovered in the music alone. At stake here is the fact that “the music” in Erasmus’ terms – that is, assumedly, any recognizable part of a song (be it a characteristic rhythm, melody, or harmonic pattern) – did actually circulate back and forth between sacred and secular settings. Erasmus saw this process as problematic when it moved in one direction: into the church. The music of the liturgy, he claimed, was all that was appropriate in ecclesiastical settings; and clerics should be vigilant about keeping impious music out of the church, disallowing sacred texts to be set “to the most vile music.”144 His castigations reveal a deep concern about the intermingling of sacred and secular, and a fear of music’s capacity to pollute the Christian body. Curiously, despite Aneau’s own claims about the pure praise that rang from the mouths of babes, and his desire to keep children from singing “chants de Poesie,” as we saw, his bucolic shepherd and shepherdess noels in the Chant Natal were stocked with raunchy jokes, much like the chansons nouvelles that Erasmus railed against. Aneau staged his Chant Natal within a city that nurtured the popularity of the noel. Lyon, in fact, was second only to Paris in the printed production of noels during the sixteenth century. Twelve editions of noels that were printed in Lyon have survived, mostly from the first half of the sixteenth century.145 With the exception of Aneau’s publications, cited above, these include: Les nouelz faitz a lonneur de jhesucrist. Et sont ordonnez comment on les doit chanter ([Lyon]: Pierre Mareschal et Barnabé Chaussard, [1504] or [1506])146; Gothic in-octavo print containing twenty-nine noels. Noelz nouveaulx sur tous les aultres composez allegoriquement selon le temps qui court Sur aucunes graves cha[n]sons. Auec le noel des eglises & villaiges du Lyo[n]nois non jamais que a present imprimez (Lyon: Claude Nourry [1515]); Gothic in-octavo print containing nine noels. 144 145 146 aucune parole et par la seule gesticulation du corps, permettait aux acteurs de représenter tout ce qu’ils voulaient. De même, dans nos chansons moderne, même si les paroles se taisaient, on découvrirait pourtant, par la seule considération de la musique, le caractère ordurier du thème.” Ibid., “aux musiques les plus infâmes.” Chardon also argues that François Briand’s Nouels nouvaulx may have been published in Lyon, possibly by Claude Nourry. Chardon, Nouelz nouvaulx, 108-109. This is highly unlikely, however, given that other printing centers – like Paris – were far closer to Le Mans, where Chardon taught. Julien Baudrier dates the print to 1506 in Bibliographie lyonnaise: Recherche sur les imprimeurs, libraires, relieurs et fondeurs de lettres de lyon au XVIe siècle, 12 vol. (Lyon: Louis Brun, 1895-1921), 11: 486. Hugues Vaganay, on the other hand, dates the print to 1504. Les Recueils de Noëls imprimés à Lyon au XVIe siècle (Autun: Taverne et Chandoux, 1935), 11. 40 Noelz nouvellement composez a l’honneur de la nativite de nostre saulveur et redempteur Jesuchrist qui se chantent sur le cha[n]t de plusieurs belles chansons (Lyon: Claude Nourry [post-1528]); Gothic in-octavo print containing four noels. Noelz nouveaulx faictz et compose a l’honneur de la nativite de nostre seigneur Jesuchrist & de sa tresdigne mere Marie en facture honneste sur plusieurs cha[n]tz tos nouueaulx lesquels ne furent jamais imprime que ceste presente anne ([Lyon: Jacques Moderne, 1535]); Gothic in-octavo print containing sixteen noels. La fleur des Noelz nouuellement imprimez faictz & composez a lhonneur de la natiuite de Jesuchrist & de la vierge Marie sa benoiste mere lesquelz sont moult beaulx & de nouueau co[m]posez ([Lyon: Jacques Moderne, 1535]); Gothic in-octavo print containing twenty-one noels, ten with notated monophonic melodies. La Fleur des noelz nouvellement imprimez faictz et composez a l’honneur de la nativité de Jesuchrist et de la Vierge Marie sa benoiste mere lesquelz sont moult beaulx et de nouveaux composez ([Lyon: Jacques Moderne, ante-1535]); Gothic in-octavo print containing eleven noels. Noel nouveau composez par Sire Thomas le Vaillant a l’honneur de l’annunciation de la vierge Marie, nativité, et passion resurrection et assention de son benoist filz Jhesu Christ. Faict sur le chant de Maistre Thomas tout doulx tout doulx. ([Lyon: Jacques Moderne, ante-1535])147; Gothic in-octavo print containing one noel. Noelz nouueaux Nouuellement faitz & co[m]posez a lhonneur de la natiuite de Jesuchrsit & de sa tresdigne mere Marie en facture honneste sur plusieurs cha[n]tz tous nouueaulx q[ue] jamais ne fure[n]t imprimes q[ue] a ceste presente annee (Lyon: Olivier Arnoullet, n.d.)148; Gothic, in-octavo print containing seventeen noels. Noelz & Chansons Nouvellement composez tant en vulgaire Françoys que Savoyien dict Patoys. Par M. Nicolas Martin Musicien en la Cité saint jean de Morienne en Savoys (Lyon: Macé Bonhomme, 1556); in-octavo print containing thirty-three noels, all with notated monophonic melodies. Noelz vieux et nouveaux en l’honneur de la nativité de Jesus Christ et de sa tresdigne mere (Lyon: Jean de Tournes, 1557); in-octavo print containing twenty-five noels, most of which have rubrics for liturgical performance. Noel nouueau, fort plaisant & recreatif, composé par le Masconnois (Lyon: Antoine du Rosne, [c. 1561]); in-octavo print containing one noel. 147 148 These four prints are attributed to Moderne by Samuel Pogue, Jacques Moderne: Lyons music printer of the sixteenth century (Geneva: Librairie Droz, 1969), 248-250. Olivier Arnoullet was active 1517-1567. This collection was likely printed in the late 1530s, or perhaps the early 1540s. 41 Le Grand Bible de Noelz tant vieux que nouveaux. Composez de plusieurs Autheurs, tant du present que de passé, lesquelz on chante vulgairement de l’advenement du jour que Nostre Seigneur Jesus Christ fut né de la Vierge Marie (Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, [c. 1570s or 1580s])149; in-octavo print containing seventy-one noels. Until the publication of Benoist Rigaud’s substantial Grand Bible in the later part of the century, these noel collections were all short in-octavo pamphlets, mostly in Gothic lettering, making them materially very much like prints of short theatre pieces.150 Specifically, a substantial number of farces were printed in the 1540s in Lyon, and their design strongly resembles the digestible layout of noel collections: in Gothic lettering, spaced out across the page, as lines are divided into character parts.151 One might suppose that the audiences for these genres overlapped, based simply on the forms in which they appeared. Further, by the second decade of the sixteenth century, the printers who published mystères were the same who furnished French editions of romances, plays, lives of saints, custom-books, scientific handbooks, moral and courtly tales, calendars, and collections of contrafacta chansons nouvelles.152 These were printers producing for a popular public that consumed what has been characterized as “medieval” material.153 There was also a blatant correspondence between printers of noels and printers of theatrical works in Lyon. Most notably, the Barnabé Chaussard printing house, which published the first-known noel collection in the city, in collaboration with Pierre Mareschal, printed at least twenty-six farces between c. 1530-1550,154 as well as one miracle in 1552, a mystère in 1516, and four moralités.155 Also active in printing noels in the early decades of the sixteenth century, Olivier Arnoullet printed two extant mystères, at least two moralités, and potentially a miracle,156 and Claude Nourry printed two miracles around the same 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 This print was probably published in the 1570s, since, as in the case of several of his chansons nouvelles collections, this edition was likely copied from Nicolas Bonfon’s Parisian print of almost exactly the same title. Benoist Rigaud’s chansons nouvelles prints will be addressed in detail in Chapter Three. An important exception is Nicolas Martin’s Noelz et Chansons (Lyon: Bonhomme, 1556), which was printed in Roman type. This collection was particular as a whole, as it printed the music for seemingly newly-composed tunes without timbres, and textually it was unique for offering noels mostly in the patois of Savoy. Some of these prints might have been used as the bases of mystère performances in Jehan Neyron’s theatre, explored above. Graham Runnalls argues that mystères began to “go down-market”: while the earliest prints were fine in-folio books, produced by some of the most famous figures in French printing history (for example, Antoine Vérard and Jean Petit in Paris; and Mathieu Husz in Lyon), these printers suddenly stopped producing mystères in the first decade of the sixteenth century. At this point, it was taken up by printers like the Trepperels in Paris, and O. Arnoullet in Lyon. See Runnalls, “Religious Drama and the Printed Book in France,” 35. Runnalls states that these prints “look[ed] back to the Middle Ages.” Ibid. It seems notable that farce publications in Lyon died off in the 1550s as confessional conflict increased, and did not re-emerged until 1595, after the League capitulated, and the city swore allegiance to Henry IV. The only late extant farces are Farce joyeuse et recreative de Poncette et de l’amoureux transy (Lyon: Jean Marguerite, 1595), and Joyeuse farce à trois personnages d’un curia qui trompa par finesse la femme d’un laboureur (Lyon: n.p., 1595). Most of the extant theatrical prints from the Chaussard publishing house are preserved in the British Museum Collection (BL C.20 e.13), which contains sixty-four plays, and has been published in facsimile: Halina Lewicka, ed. Le Recueil du British Museum: Fac-Similé des Soixante-Quatre Pièces de l’Original (Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1970). These include Ung beau mystere de nostre dame a la louenge de sa tres digne nativite (1542); La vie et mystere (n.d.); and Moralité de l’enfant de perdition qui tua son pere et pendit sa mere et enfin se desespera (n.d.). Les 42 time frame.157 Rigaud printed at least two moralités,158 while Jacques Moderne printed one.159 That many of the same timbres used for noel collections were also sprinkled across theatrical prints follows from the fact that the majority of noel printers were involved with theatrical publications; and given the degree to which the texts of plays could be adapted for local productions, these same dramatic pieces likely featured extra musical interpolations or contrafacta beyond those presented in printed versions. Such interrelations can be clarified by studying the travels of one timbre across these genres. In 1548, Barnabé Chaussard printed the Farce nouvelle d’ung savetier nomme Calbain: fort joyeuse: lequel se maria a une savetiere: a troys personnages: cestassavoir. Calbain. La femme. Et le galland.160 This farce is a musical pastiche featuring a cobbler whose lines are almost entirely quotations from popular songs, including “En revenant du moulin,” “Par dieu je ne scay quil me fault,” “Jolys moys de may qua[n]t revie[n]dras tu,” “Ilz sont a sainct Jehan des chaulx,” “Bergerotte savoysienne,” “Mamour pour mamyette,” and “Allegez moy, doulce plaisant brunette.” The constant musical stream of references in this farce makes apparent the cross-section of songs between the theatrical repertoire and the noel repertoire; as, for example, the cobbler sings “Allegez moy, doulce & plaisant brunette,” a song that was also given as a timbre for a noel printed by Mareschal and Chaussard, “Chantons nouel a la nativité,” and indicated as a timbre for a “Noël d’un accord chantons,” printed by Rigaud.161 Such examples abound across the extant repertoire. To have a sense of this, one need only glance at the “Catalogue of Theatrical Chansons” compiled by Howard Mayer Brown in his Music in the French Secular Theatre. But noels themselves also spread within collections of the genre, showing up in prints decades apart. And these popular noels did not just overlap with theatrical practices: they actually directly engaged the narrative, dialogue, and stylistic characteristics of the community theatre to which they were related. Three brief examples suffice to provide a glimpse of how these noels circulated within (and out from) Lyon, as well as to demonstrate how thoroughly theatrical this form was. First, the noel “Laissez paistre voz bêtes” appeared in five of the twelve editions of noels printed in Lyon during the sixteenth century: in Noelz nouvealx (Lyon: Olivier Arnoullet, n.d.), in Noelz nouveaulx faictz et composez (Lyon: Jacques Moderne, n.d.), in La Fleur des noelz nouvellement notés (Lyon: Jacques Moderne, n.d.), in Noelz vieux et nouveaux (Lyon: Jean De Tournes, 1557), and in the Grand Bible (Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, n.d.).162 This noel is a bergerie, a story centering on shepherd and shepherdess characters, which as noted above, were the most popular moments in Nativity plays.163 It features many of the commonplaces of shepherd scenes 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 miracles de nostre dame may or may not have been a theatrical print, and no known copy survives. Arnoullet also printed Pierre Gringore’s famous Le menus propos de mere sotte (1535). Les miracles de nostre dame (1506); and Les miracles de la benoite et glorieuse Vierge Marie (1524). Jean d’Abundance’s Moralite, mystere et figure de la passion de nostre seigneur Jesus Christ (n.d.), and a Moralite de l’orgueil et presomption de l’empereur Jovinien (1584). Moralite, mistere moult utile et salutaire, devote figure de la passion de nostre seigneur Jesuchrist (1540). Lewicka, Le Recueil du British Museum, XXXIII. Howard Mayer Brown provides concordances for this timbre in Music in the French Secular Theatre, 185-186. This noel appears, respectively, on fol. B4r, fol. D4r, B4r, p. 37, and fol. D5r. Block gives a full breakdown of textual sources, musical settings, and related chansons texts for this noel in The Early French Parody Noël, 2: 100-103. I draw the text from Rigaud’s Grand Bible, 11v-13v. This text corresponds with the version that Block prints from Pierre Sergent’s Les Grans Noelz in The Early French Parody Noël, 2: 100-103. 43 and the patois of the popular theater. The noel opens with an invitation to the shepherds to let their animals graze, and come sing “nau.” The characters are all stock shepherd figures – Guillot, Guillemette, Peronnelle, Tallebot, Margot, Allison – and the protagonist, the main voice of the song, is assumedly also a shepherd. There follow bucolic scenes, as the shepherd tells his friends that he heard a nightingale singing such a novel and beautiful song that it burst open his head (“Il m’y rompoit la teste”). He asks another shepherd if he had heard the bird, and the second shepherd replies, “Yes, I heard it, I took up my bussine and rejoiced.”164 They then sing a song together, at which all of their herding friends gather round; and so they all dance, as shepherds and shepherdesses are wont to do in the theater. Much like the “Noel branlant” in Aneau’s Chant Natal, according to Jean Babelon, “Laissez paistre vos bestes” was a chanson de danse.165 This noel, in fact, was printed in all known sixteenth century editions without a timbre, signaling both that it was well-known, as well as the likelihood that it was already circulating orally before it appeared in sixteenth century manuscripts and prints. A monophonic tune for the noel is given, however, in Moderne’s La Fleur des noelz nouvellement notés. According to Block, this was almost exactly the same as the version still being sung (presumably in France, though possibly also Québec) when she published her monograph in 1983 – which suggests that Moderne’s monophonic tune probably represented something close to a common version of the noel in the early sixteenth century (see Example 1.2). Example 1.2: “Laissez Paistre vos bestes” from La Fleur des noelz (Lyon: Moderne, 1535), fol. B4v The tune from Moderne is a sweet diatonic melody centering on C, moving across the singable range of an octave, from G-g, progressing smoothly in an even duple meter. It circles around a jaunty opening gesture, which sets the four-line exhortation to an arching melody that is largely in conjunct motion, with a few small leaps – most notably the upbeat fourth with which it 164 165 Given the tendencies for raunchy humor in shepherd songs, this may have been some kind of sexual innuendo, both since a bussine (or “buisine”) was a wind instrument, which were commonly associated with word play about phalluses, and that rejoiced (“jouir”) is used to refer to sexual climax. It could have also been an innocent reference to rejoicing with a wind instrument – also a characteristic feature of shepherd songs. Jean Babelon, “La Fleur des noëls (Lyon 1535),” Revue des livres anciens 1 (1913-1914): 369-404 at 373. 44 begins. This invitation to “Laissez paistre vos bestes ...” presents this little line in an open version ending on G (“vaulx”), and a closed version, ending on c (“Nau”). The music to which all of the subsequent septain stanzas are set, however, only begins with the third musical phrase, an even simpler and shorter bit that is entirely conjunct (“J’ouys chanter ...”). The following phrase, however, is perhaps the catchiest, for its repetitive rhyming-musical gesture that ornamentally circles around G, landing on this pitch at the moment that an internal rhyme recurs; in Example 1.2, which gives the first stanza of text, this internal rhyme is “nouveau; haut; beau; resonau,” with the “nouveau” and “beau” landing on G. The final two phrases return to the initial arching gesture, with slight variations on how the open version begins (“Il m’y rompoit le”), and on how the closed version ends (“aller veoir Naulet”). This very repetition with slight variation, and a combined rhyming-gestural interest in the middle, makes the tune both catchy and singable. Given the invitations to dance it was, indeed, likely a chanson à danser and probably meant to be danced, evoking, and potentially realizing, the muscular bonding of dancing. The opening two phrases “Laissez paistre vos bestes […] et venés chanter: Nau” may also have served as a refrain throughout the song, allowing an entire group to join in. While a refrain is not signaled in textual editions of this noel that I have seen, this omission is not uncommon; the assumed popularity of the song (given its circulation without a timbre) means that this refrain would already have been anticipated. The musical phrase that would have begun each stanza without this refrain is far less notable as a melodic gesture and more suited to an internal line (“J’ouy chanter ...”). The song includes a minimal amount of dialogue. Mostly, it features the first-person monologue of a shepherd; it is, nonetheless, dramatic and interactive, as the shepherd invites other characters to do things, and responds to their actions. As they begin dancing, for example, the shepherd instructs: Or sus dansons, prens Allison: Je prendray Guillemette: Margot, tu prendras gros Guillot. Qui prendra Peronnelle, Ce fera Tallebot. Now then let’s dance, take Allison: I’ll take Guillemette: Margot, you’ll take fat Guillot. Who will take Peronnelle, That will be Tallebot. The first-person voice is taken up again with“‘Noel, noel’ iterando: ‘Noel’” – but this noel adopts the character of a sermon joyeuse, a theatrical monologue that poked fun at the Church and its practices. Written in the voice of a monk, it celebrates the joys of drinking “bonum vinum.” This noel, in fact, might have been part of events like the Feast of Fools, which took place on or around January 1, and featured minor clergy performing mock liturgies. Indeed, “‘Noel, noel’ iterando: ‘Noel’” was likely a contrafactum of the Christmas hymn, “Noel, noel, interumque O noel” – the text of which is glossed in the opening lines: 45 “Noel, noel” iterando: “Noel” “Noel, noel,” Iterando “Noel”: Triplicando: Noel, o noel psallite.” Nova vobis gaudio refero. Bonum vinum me faict souvent chanter. Quant il est cler, fort, friant, et entier; Tout me faict enyvrer et je suis bien moveillé166 “Noel, noel, interumque O noel” “Noel, noel,” interumque O “Noel”: Triplicando: “Noel, o noel psallite.” Nova vobis gaudio refero. Natus est rex virginis utero Dum prospero fidumque surgero, Omnes de cetero talia credite167 This contrafactum also creates a sort of trope parody, beginning most of the subsequent verses with a Latin incipit, as in the final verse: Obsecro vos, oyez que vous diray: Se je ne boys toute joye perdray. Je languiray, malade au lict seray, Et tantost fineray, je vous dis verité.168 Obscecro vos, listen to what I will tell you: If I don’t drink I will lose all joy, I will languish, sick in bed, And soon I will perish, I tell you the truth. The Latin hymn and the macaronic parody co-existed in Lyonnais prints, as both appeared in Mareschal and Chaussard’s Les Nouelz (where the macaronic contrafactum is referred to as a “chanson bacchique”), while the Latin version appeared in De Tournes’ Noelz vieux et nouveaux (with the rubric “Pour la messe de la minuit”), and the macaronic version appeared in Rigaud’s Grand Bible.169 But even more compelling as an example of the popular travels of intertextual noels is a contrafactum in Franco-Italian dialect from the city of Belley (about 80 kilometers east of Lyon), “Meigna, meigna, bin devon Noel chanta.” This noel is printed in both Arnoullet’s Nouelz nouveaulz nouvellement faitz and in Moderne’s Noelz nouveaulx faict et composez with the timbre “Noel, iterando noel,” as well as Moderne’s La Fleur des noelz nouvellement notés with a monophonic melody.170 That “Noel, iterando noel” is given here as a timbre suggests that it was known broadly as a popular tune, something also intimated by the absence of a timbre indication in both Lyonnais prints. Noels could thus develop enough currency to become timbres for new noels, or even 166 167 168 169 170 This text appears with the minor variation of the opening line (appearing as only “Noel iterando noel”) in Rigaud, Grand Bible, 61v. This Christmas hymn appears twice in BnF, Arsenal MS 3653, according to Block, The Early French Parody Noël, 2: 575. See also Robert Michael Nosow’s discussion of this hymn’s polyphonic setting by Nicolas Grenon for performance at the Cathedral of Cambrai in the 1420s in Ritual Meanings in the Fifteenth-Century Motet (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012), 175-176. Rigaud, Grand Bible, 62v. See Block for a detailed breakdown of all extant sixteenth century print and manuscript sources for the French/Latin noel text, as well as related Latin texts, and musical settings in The Early French Parody Noël, 2: 574-577. Ibid., 2: 576-577. 46 chansons nouvelles, a situation at play in the final noel that I will explore here, the “Noel pour l’amour de Marie.” This noel was printed with the timbre “Faulce trahison. Dieu te mauldit” in Mareschal and Chaussard’s Les Nouelz, Arnoullet’s Nouelz nouveaulz nouvellement faitz, and Rigaud’s Grand Bible; it was also printed both with this timbre, and with a monophonic melody in Moderne’s La Fleur des noelz nouvellement notés.171 As witnessed by these concordances, the “Noel pour l’amour de Marie” was clearly popular and broadly disseminated across France.172 The text appears in octosyllabic quatrains with alternating masculine and feminine rhymes, and tells of Joseph and Mary’s search for shelter in Bethlehem and of the birth of Jesus, ending with a series of simple moral lessons. The lyrics alternate between narration and dialogue, as Joseph seeks a place for the couple to stay: S’en allerent chez ung riche homme, Logis demander humblement, Et leur respondit en somme: “Avez vous chevaulx largement?” “Nous n’avons qu’un beuf et ung asne, Voyez les icy en present.” “Vous ne semblez que truandaille Vous ne logerez point ceans.”173 They went to a rich man’s abode, To humbly ask for lodging, And in sum, the response was: “Do you have many horses?” “We have but this cow and donkey, That you see here.” “You seem like nothing more than truants You cannot stay here.” The use of dialogue is not rare in the noel genre, and incorporating such back and forth from characters makes the song properly dramatic. As the noel continues, Joseph and Mary are repeatedly refused shelter from rich men, with a notable interaction that incites a theme common to Nativity plays: Joseph si regarda ung homme Qui l’appella: “Meschant paysant, 171 172 173 Ibid., 1: 76. Ibid., 2: 115-116. This text for this noel is given without dialogue quotation marks in Rigaud, Grand Bible, 28r – 29v. I use Block’s version here, who draws from Sergent’s print (which uses quotation marks to mark out the dialogue) in The Early French Parody Noël, 2: 114-115. 47 Ou menez ceste jeune femme Qui n’a pas plus hault de quinze ans?” A man looked upon Joseph [And] called him: “Detestable peasant, Where are you taking this young girl Who can’t be more than fifteen years old?” Much like the insults in Aneau’s Mystere, Joseph is referred to as a “wicked peasant”; but here, he is also viewed with suspicion for the substantial age discrepancy between him and his wife. Like a charivari or the mocking moments that occured in urban plays, this commentary reflected contemporary mores, drawing attention once more to the community judgement elicited by old men marrying young women. The final verses offer a moral lesson on the holiness of poverty very much in line with Jesus’ popular lesson about the poor, sick Lazarus being refused aid by the rich man: Trescheres gens ne vous desplaise Si vous vivez bien pauvrement Si fortune vous est contraire Prenez la bien patiemment. En souvenance de la vierge Qui print son lougis pauvrement En une estable descouverte, Qui n’estoit point fermee devant. Precious people, may it not displease you If you live in poverty If fortune does not favor you Accept it with patience. In remembrance of the Virgin Who found her meager lodging In a stable, Which was open in front. The “Noel pour l’amour de Marie” thus contained several scenes in miniature that would have been acted out in the shorter mystères dedicated to the Nativity, or the portions of the enormous mystères that focused on the Nativity. Its text incorporates dialogue between key characters, and brings forward contemporary concerns about appropriate marriage. Much like the sermons that would end mystères, this noel aimed to educate its auditors to respond properly to poverty and redemption. As in community theatre, noels like the “Noel pour l’amour de Marie” thus instructed participants in social mores and standards of Christianity, while retaining a 48 distinctly local character. In fact, the reason that the noels in Aneau’s Chant Natal might seem redundant in a theatrical production is because they so often contain the Nativity drama. But they do so in a portable format, as compact prints that moved ever more fluidly as they were transmitted orally. Pedagogues such as Aneau surely hoped that their noels would be immediately memorized by the youth like the chansons nouvelles that Erasmus carped about. The material forms through which these noels have come down to us – prints and manuscripts – can misleadingly suggest that the noel was a literary genre. Given that some of these noels did not even require timbres and that some became timbres themselves, it is clear that noels circulated orally: they were a musical practice. This is not to imply that they were “folk” music – but that they were an urban popular music that encompassed both older noels and newer contrafacta, a music that was partly sustained with the help of aide mémoires like the printed noel collections studied here. Furthermore, noels could expand in scope to incorporate sweeping content moving from the Creation and the Fall, to the Visitation and Nativity, from the Slaughter of the Innocents and the Flight into Egypt, to the Crucifixion – much like the narrative range of large Nativity cycle plays. Regardless of the frame of their storyline, most noels focused on positively-valenced messages of Christian community, and in the early phases of the Reformation, they were produced by both Catholics and Protestants. In 1533, for instance, the Protestant Matthieu Malingre had his Noels nouveaux Musiciens amateurs des Cantiques. Au nom de Dieu cha[n]tez noelz nouveaulx Lesqu[e]lz sont faictz sur les vieulx & antiq[ue]s printed in Neuchâtel by Pierre de Vingle (but printed without any attribution or city). While these noels generally retained a celebratory (rather than invective) tone, Malingre’s output of contrafacta soon turned polemic, with collections like Chansons nouvelles demontrantz plusieurs erreurs et faulsetez, desquelles les paovre monde est remply par les ministre de Satan ([Neuchâtel]: [Pierre de Vingle], 1534), and another edition of the same title (Geneva, 1535). Significantly, Malingre abandoned the “noel” genre in favour of chansons nouvelles at the same time that he moved towards printing combative texts. The essential differences between noels and other varieties of contrafacta were, first, that noels were labelled as such, and second, that they almost always centered on the Nativity. The result was essentially Marian, which put the genre increasingly at odds with solidifying Protestant beliefs – likely the primary reason that the noel was discarded by Protestant songsters. The practice of noels thus engaged visual, oral, aural, and theatrical techniques of communitas. One’s encounter with the genre, however, was thoroughly musical, as employing timbres demanded recollecting extant popular tunes. Noels were thus constituted by mimetic forms of musical replication (though perhaps not an ideal mimesis in Platonic or Aristotelian terms) wherein the new poetic iteration contained traces of the old. On a more practical level, by incorporating the ethos of the Nativity theatre, the noels themselves also elicited role-play. Singing noels often meant adopting the voices of theatrical characters, the same figures that were embodied by community members for generations in mystère productions. Like his pedagogically pragmatic use of community theatre, Aneau deployed a popular musical practice in the public training of his “disciples.” His Chant Natal, however, was unlike most of the noel collections in Lyon, which made use of popular song. Aneau distinguished his noels by basing most of them on polyphonic chansons that had recently been printed in Lyon, thus referencing music-making of a different order from the monophonic timbres repeatedly indexed for the bulk of the noels printed in the city. His Chant Natal thus tweaked familiar Lyonnais techniques of 49 communitas to project an elite différance, one carried by the power of common affective practices. Genethliac: Emblematic Noels Already in the Chant Natal, Aneau’s attraction to the polyphonic repertoire is evident, though from our distance decoding the sources of his timbres has required some sleuthing. Far more explicit in its musicality is the book of four-voice noels he had printed twenty years later: Genethliac: Noel Musical et Historial de la Conception, & Nativité de nostre Seigneur JESUS CHRIST, par vers & chants divers, entresemez & illustrez des nobles noms Royaux, & Principaux, anagrammatizez en diverses sentences, soubz mystique allusion aux presonnes divines & humanines (Lyon: Godefroy Beringen, 1559). The print is in upright octavo format with Roman text, and single-impression musical type. The entire text is set to separate, generally strophic songs that each portray key theatrical scenes from the Nativity. The book is dedicated to Marguerite de France, Henry II’s sister, and, as referenced in the title, fashions anagrams for a selection of the most powerful nobles, including Henry II, Catherine de Medici, the dauphin François de Valois, his wife Mary Stuart (Queen of Scotland), Antoine de Bourbon (King of Navarre), his wife, Jeanne d’Albret, Marguerite de Navarre, Marguerite de Valois (the king’s sister), Anne de Montmorency (Constable of France), Diane de Poitiers, François, Duke de Guise, and Charles, Cardinal of Lorraine. These anagrams may have been playful, but they were also meant to be understood, as they are presented in upper-case letters within the music, and explained in an index at the end of the print.174 In contrast to Aneau’s Chant Natal, Genethliac consists of newly-composed music, though only the cantus and tenor parts are given in the surviving copy; all copies of the other partbook, with the bassus and altus parts, have been lost.175 Attributions are provided for only two of the pieces: “Genethliac ou Chant Natal, Aiglogue quatrieme de Vergil intitulé Pollion ou Auguste, extraict des vers de la Sibylle Cumane” to Goudimel, and the final “Presentation de l’enfant au Temple, l’Archiprestre Sainct Symeon” to Didier Lupi; the “Aiglogue Sibylline de Vergil prophetisant l’enfantement de la Vierge & Nativité du Filz divin, Traduicte en decasyllables François” may have been composed by Estienne Du Tertre.176 Despite this new music, which demanded a different kind of literate public – one who could read music – Aneau presented this print as a continuation of the noel tradition of yore: In the past, our grandfathers and ancestors observed the demands of Nativity festivities with great reverence and joy, [customs which they] have preserved until 174 175 176 Aneau, Genethliac, 63-64. Aneau also states in the preface, “Et sont iceux [noble noms] anagrammatisme sentencieux escripts en grosses lettres antiques Romaines, pour estre entrecogneux, & (qui faire voura) retournez à la proprieté des noms: si on est curieux savoir de quelz Princes, our Princesses ilz sont.” Ibid., 5. Frank Dobbins makes this logical conclusion, given the prevalence of sixths, occasional fourths, and the fact that the Chant XIII is marked “trio,” though only the top voice is given. See Dobbins, Music in Renaissance Lyons, 69. What is perhaps even more obvious is the fact that the surviving part is labelled “Cantus, & Tenor” on the title page. Printing separate cantus and tenor, and altus and bassus parts would also have followed a pattern set by the Beringen brothers with their previous prints of four-part psalms by Louis Bourgeois and Didier Lupi. This potential attribution is based on a quatrain that references Du Tertre on the title page. Ibid., 69-71. 50 our day, even in the very Christian Kingdom of France, by singing Noel during Advent and the feast of Calends in their houses, and in private family gatherings with their wives, children, and servants, after grace is said at dinner, while warming themselves around the Yule log fire during the long evenings of short winter days: in this way they would innocently pass the time in happy songs of the Nativity instead of lascivious chansons, or scandalous stories. In order to maintain this honest custom, in this year 1558, we have composed these Evangelical Noels, to new words and music.177 Not only particular for its inclusion of printed music, Genethliac also diverges from Aneau’s Chant Natal by prioritizing Mary. While Joseph retained a prominent role in the Chant Natal, he disappears from Genethliac, whereas Mary is foregrounded, along with the Annunciation, the Visitation, and the Magnificat. Her prominence betrays an increading emphasis on the Catholicity of noels at mid-century and their association with the Marian cult. Genethliac also lacks the instructive rubrics that contributed an overtly pedagogic tone to the Chant Natal. Rather than being dedicated to his “disciples,” Genethliac is offered to the “liberal delectation of good Christians.”178 Further, a stress on nobility colors the entire print. Starting from the first piece of music, the “Salutation Angelique à la Vierge, & Conception du Sainct Esprit,” the noble anagrams are not only visibly marked out on the page in upper-case letters, they also each receive a meticulous musical setting (see Figure 1.4 for the cantus & tenor original, and Example 1.3 at the end of this chapter for my reconstruction of all four parts).179 The opening phrase, for instance, begins with “En lis d’or ha vie,” an anagram for Henry II, set in duple meter in tight imitation, largely in semibreves that would have produced an audible text, despite the closely woven texture. When Mary sings the second iteration of this same music, another anagram, “De lis honeur ay,” is set, again representing Henry II. The same demure phrase is then repeated (with a closed ending) on a text that references Mary (“Et en toy Marie”), thus musically adhering the crown to the Holy Virgin. The following section vacillates between slightly faster, freer imitation, largely in syllabic minims, and terminal phrases in decorated homophony. The care given to setting emblems of nobility is foregrounded in the final three phrases, which are made up made up 177 178 179 Aneau, Genethliac, 4-5, “Lequel devoir de festivité Natale noz bo[n]s peres, & ancestres ont par le passé fort revere[m]ment, & joyeusement observé, & co[n]stamme[n]t jusque à nous co[n]servé, mesmeme[n]t au treschrestian Royaume de Fra[n]ce, en chanta[n]t Noel au te[m]ps de l’Adve[n]t, & festes des Calendes, en leurs maisons, & privées familles avec leur femmes, enfans, & domestiques, apres graces rendue du repas prins, en se chaufant au bon feud de la souche de Noel es longues serées des cours jours d’hyvers: ainsi passans innocentement le temps en joyeux chants Natalz au lieu de lascives chansons, ou propos de mesdisance. Pour à laquelle honneste coustume donner cause d’entretien, on esté en ceste année 1558 composez ces Noelz Evangeliques, en verbe & Musique nouvelle.” All translations of Aneau’s Genethliac are my own. Ibid., 6, “liberale delectation des bons Chrestiens.” Note that the reconstructions feature transcriptions of the original cantus and tenor parts from the 1559 Genethliac print, held at the BnF; the voices that I have reconstructed are the altus and the bassus. As with all of my polyphonic examples in this dissertation, the rhythms have been halved (one minim = one semiminim) in my reconstructions (Examples 1.3, 1.4, and 1.5). Several meter changes which do not appear in the original have also been added to accommodate phrasal asymmetries that are not suited to the barlines of these reconstructions: “Salutation Angelique,” m. 26 and m. 32; and “Venue des Roys,” m. 18, 19, and 29. These remain represented by cut time in the original print. Cadential tones have also been raised in “Venue des Roys,” m. 9 and m. 28 (cantus). 51 entirely of anagrams when sung the first time by the angel Gabriel. The first, “Indice est de cher ami,” one of Catherine de Medici’s anagrams, shifts into a heavy triple meter in homophonic declamation, sliding into the following phrase, “Tresvray dame en throne,” for Mary Stuart, which moves into a delicate imitative line in duple meter. The final phrase, “Du lis fai sa corone,” for François II returns to a weighty homophonic triple meter through the attractive visual emphasis of coloration.180 Figure 1.4: “Salutation Angelique,” Aneau, Genethliac (1559) The theatrical potential of the Genethliac settings is carefully worked out, with both musical and poetic gestures that evoke the characters for whom they are set. The “Venue des Roys Mages vers Herodes Roy de Judée,” for example, presents a conversation between the three kings, Balthazar, Jaspar, and Melchior and Herod in four huitain stanzas of solemn decasyllables rhyming ababbcbc. (see Figure 1.5 for the cantus & tenor original, and Example 1.4 at the end of this chapter for my reconstruction of all four parts).181 The music follows the nearly-symmetrical form ABABCDAB. The A section draws out a languid opening with slight imitative echoes 180 181 This terminal phrase is surely evocative for most students of music history of the classic teaching piece, Du Fay’s Resveilliés vous ballade, with its sudden block chord declamation of “Charles gentil,” to reference Carlo I Malatesta. The same pattern in taken up for the following “Adoration des Roys, et Presentation de leurs dons à l’enfant Jesus Christ,” except that it adds a quatrain envoy. Ibid., 40-41. 52 between the upper parts for the classic query “Ou est celuy?” The B section then binds a florid imitative line on “Le Roy des Juifz” to a terminal phrase on Henry II’s anagram “Du Roy ha le sine.” Surely in the spirit of royal exoticism, this piece is far more ornate, with a recurrent decorative turn on evocative words like “Juifz,” in the first A section, returning in its second iteration as “Orient,” and “l’adorer” at the end of the first strophe. Foreign wonders are also highlighted through dramatic changes in harmonies, resting on a G-major chord at “soothsayer” (“haruspicine”), and shifting suddenly to an A-major chord at “shining rays” (“rais luysans”). The piece even finishes with a peculiar lack of harmonic closure, opening out to a C-major chord. The absence of a terminal cadence, however, actually points to the theatrical planning that went into these compositions, as the “Venue des Roys Mages” segues – both musically and topically – into the following “Adoration des Roys.” Figure 1.5: “Venue des Roys Mages,” Aneau, Genethliac (1559) The “Venues des Roys Mages” strongly contrasts with the music provided for the shepherds and shepherdesses, which follows in the long tradition of bucolic sketches with a “Branle des Bergiers, & Bergieres allant joyeusement veoir la Nativité.” This piece is, indeed, a bouncy triple-meter branle, set entirely homophonically in alternating semibreves and minims (see Figure 1.6 for the cantus & tenor original, and Example 1.5 for my reconstruction of all four parts). The text is appropriately simple, with rollicking lines that shift between 7/3/7 syllables – 53 indeed, a poetic form with incredibly popular circulation, and perfectly suited to musical performance, as I will examine in detail in Chapter Three (see section on “Songs Danced in the City”). Figure 1.6: “Branle des Bergiers & Bergieres,” Aneau, Genethliac (1559) The poetry of this piece often repeats rhyme words in a way that would be avoided in verse of a higher register (as in “Si le grand pasteur les garde / Pas n’ont garde”), and continually invokes pastoral symbols, as for example, when Rogel declaims: Ruben, pren ta cornemuse, Et t’amuse, A un branle gringoter,182 Ou nous sonne à ta nazarde La gailiarde, 182 “Gringoter” was generally used to refer to birdsong, but it also referred to a type of decorative improvisation atop a melody – most often used in describing “folk” characters like shepherds and shepherdesses. 54 Pour mieux nous faire troter.183 Ruben, take up your pipe, And amuse yourself, With a branle gringoter Or play on your nazarde for us A galliard, To get us moving faster. With such attention to heightening the theatricality of the songs, it comes as no surprise that the visual element of Genethliac is strong. Each musical piece is preceded by a woodcut that illustrates the coming scene – as, for example, the shepherd playing his bagpipes that introduces the “Branle des Bergiers” (see Figure 1.7). Figure 1.7: “Branle des Bergiers” Woodcut, Aneau, Genethliac (1559) These images present snapshots of what a staging of Genethliac might have looked like, replicating the scenographic core of all Nativity plays and in this way making Genethliac one of 183 Ibid., 32 55 the best records to survive of this theatrical genre. The highly active figures depict characters in the midst of dramatic movement – portraying, for example, the intimate touch between Mary and Elizabeth in the “Visitation de la Vierge” (see Figure 1.8), or the various venerating gestures of the three kings in the “Adoration des Roys” (see Figure 1.9). Moreover, by placing each figure before the song that accompanies it, the form of the print confirms the contemplative value of moving from image to text, much like an emblem book. Additionally, the layout of Genethliac resembles that of Aneau’s Imagination poetique, with a title overtop of a figure, followed by the poetic verse; the difference, of course, is that the poetry is set to music. Figure 1.8: “Visitation de la Vierge” Woodcut, Aneau, Genethliac (1559) Significantly, the very musicality of this mystère aimed toward a peaceable harmony. Aneau may have chosen to write in the popular genre of the noels of community theater, but the noble anagrams in Genethliac oriented the print towards an elite political sphere. The aristocrats who were praised by affixing their names to Mary, Jesus, and God, came from all religiouspolitical camps: for example, Catherine de Medici aimed at conciliation; Jeanne d’Albret was a symbol of devout Protestantism; and the Guise brothers were heads of a staunch Catholicism. In 56 1558 when Aneau put together Genethliac, he had been asked by the city council to return as principal of the Collège de la Trinité – a very public position in a city boiling over with confessional tensions. The amendments made to his new contract reveal fears as to his religious loyalties: he was instructed to have three masses said at the Collège every week and ordered to ensure that “neither doctrine nor prohibited or censored books against our Holy mother Church” were taught.184 In this tense atmosphere, Aneau again metamorphosized familiar techniques of communitas, mobilizing theatrical and musical practices that aimed at bringing Lyonnais residents together in the affecting form of a musical emblem book. Figure 1.9: “Adoration des Roys” Woodcut Aneau, Genethliac (1559) The figures in Genethliac are thus both theatrical and emblematic, but, much like Aneau’s emblems, they are only realized in the poetics that follow these images; in this case, that poetics is fulfilled musically. This print thus illuminates the interrelationships between humanistic genres, medieval traditions, and oral musical practices – that is, between emblems, mystères, and noels. Read in the context of the theatrical, musical, and pedagogic practices surrounding it, this multi-media book is evidence of these lost techniques of communitas – skills and practices that were valued for their potential capacity to unite an emotional community. In analyzing Genethliac, neither Frank Dobbins nor Brigitte Biot attend much to its emblematic 184 Biot, Barthélemy Aneau, 390, “aucune doctrine, ni livres défendus, ou censurez, contre nostre Sainte mere l’Eglise.” Translation mine. 57 character, and thus disregard the crux of the print’s Platonic sodality. For the very multimediality of Genethliac is also what makes the musicality of this project striking. Tapping into such genre crossings allows us to realize how important techniques of communitas were to humanists like Aneau; but as a musical emblem book, more specifically, Genethliac marketed a means of meditating on the moral imperatives contained in the Nativity story. Polyphonic musical settings of emblematic poems (what, we may recall, Alciati had invented as emblems) not only prolonged the experience of a meditative text, they also called for voices to join together in harmony. As a musical emblem book, Genethliac invited readers to embody moralizing texts by singing them, performing at once theatrical and musical communitas. This was obviously a Neo-Platonic musical project, but uniquely, one that called for communal meditation on the innocent birth of Christ. Mimicry and Alterity In her excellent monograph The Early French Parody Noël, Adrienne Block suggests that Aneau’s title Genethliac title referred to Geneva,185 a political interpretation that ignores the more obvious play on the nativity as genesis or the origin of Christianity.186 The title clearly referred to birth, and specifically in this case, to the birth of Christ. That Block was sidetracked by imagining a connection with the Calvinist city of Geneva should be excused, though, for her assumptions accrue from a long tradition of believing that Aneau was a clandestine Protestant. The historians that perpetuated this notion – or at least did not argue against it – remained faithful to the propaganda of extremist Catholics that began following Aneau’s death in 1561. Claude de Rubys, for one, recorded in his Histoire veritable de la ville de Lyon (1604) that the people, riled by an attack on the Host, threw themselves with fury upon Aneau, who: […] had some humanist learning but who smacked of bad faith [“sentait mal de foy”] – they killed and slaughtered him, accusing him, as was the truth, that it was he who had sewn the seeds of heresy in Lyon, as he had ruined and corrupted several young men from good Lyonnais households who had become leaders in the [1562] revolt in the city and who had all been his disciples. He led them astray from the religion on their fathers.187 Rubys’ Histoire was published more than fifty years after the fact, by which time the subsequent horrors of the religious wars and the Vespres Lyonnaise (the local manifestation of the 1572 Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre) doubtless made it all the more believable that Aneau had been secretly “corrupting” the city’s youth with Protestantism. Indeed, Rubys’ 185 186 187 Block, The Early French Parody Noël, 1: 100. The notoriously depressive but brilliant humanist Estienne Dolet, a colleague and friend of Aneau’s in the printing sphere also published a Latin Généthliaque (Genethliacum Claudii Doleti Stephani Doleti Filii) in 1539 in honor of the birth of his son. Biot, Barthélemy Aneau, 75. Claude de Rubys, Histoire véritable, 389, “[...] avait quelque lettre humaines mais il sentait mal de foy – ils le tuèrent et massacrèrent, l’accusant, comme vérité était telle, que c’était lui qui avait semé l’hérésie à Lyon, comme de fait il avait gâté et corrompu plusieurs jeunes hommes de bonnes maisons de Lyon qui furent chefs de la révolte de la ville et avoient tous esté ses disciple. Il les avoit dévoyés de la religion de leurs pères.” 58 Histoire drew a direct line between Aneau’s supposed heresy and the Protestant coup that happened the year after his death, when a Protestant minority took control of the city for just over a year. I will touch on this period in Chapter Two and Three, but suffice it to say that this overthrow became one of the most powerful points of reference for radical Lyonnais Catholics who sought to tarnish the repute of any Protestant. A more contemporary reflection comes from Jean Guéraud, who recorded in his journal in 1561: That same day the Principal of the Collège de la Trinité was killed, whose name was M. Barthelemey Laigneu, for the same reason that he had wanted to violate the Holy Sacrament in the Saint Pierre procession as it moved towards the Rhône; a man of such horrible faith [“meschant à la foy”] as ever there was in Lyon.188 The telling point here is that Aneau is again characterized as “meschant à la foy,” while Rubys had said that he “sentait mal de foy.” In his re-hire as principal, as noted above, he had to publicly enforce Catholic practice; so if these figures assumed that he held Protestant beliefs, they must also have supposed that they were secret. In fact, as confessional tensions started to boil over in the 1550s, Catholic publics became increasingly concerned with mimicry – the notion that there were Protestants masquerading as Catholics in their community, and that these false members were infecting the social body of Christ though their heresy. This fear was augmented by (if not emergent from) the very laws that restricted Protestant worship: because edicts often banned Protestant services within urban centers (often forcing them to convene outside of city limits), their practices could easily be characterized as secretive and thus suspicious.189 While the particular stimuli to bloodshed were community-specific, patterns of aggression and symbolics of violence were replicated in strife-torn cities across France.190 Parades in particular frequently became sites of conflict and attacks. Since processions played such a vital role in Catholic ritual, this gave them a foothold on marking out public space; but, as we saw with the Collège de Guyenne in Bordeaux, Protestants too took to parading while singing Calvinist psalms. In the early 1550s in Lyon, printers’ journeymen and their wives marched raucously through the streets, singing psalms, and slinging insults at the canon-counts of Saint Jean. Claude Baduel, a spiritual leader of the Reform in 1550-1551 in Lyon, wrote to Calvin to complain about these irreverent artisans: Before my arrival in Lyon, there was a habit of singing the psalms in the evening, after dinner, while roaming the streets in various districts of the city. When I took control of the Church, without liking it very much, but since there was nothing 188 189 190 From an edition of the diary: Jean Tricou, ed., La Chronique Lyonnais de Jean Guéraud 1536-1562 (Lyon: L’Imprimeries Audinienne, 1929), 257, “En ce jour mesme fut tué le Principal du College de la Trinité, nommé M. Barthelemy Laigneu, par le mesme faict parcequ’il voullust oultrager le Saint Sacrement en la procession de Saint-Pierre qui passe vers le Rosne; homme autant meschant à la foy qu’il n’en fust point dedans Lyon.” All translations of Guéraud are my own. See the detailed discussions throughout Racaut, Hatred in Print, as well as my exploration of the musical manifestations of such rhetoric in Chapter Three of this dissertation. I refer here to studies that were formational to my research – respectively, Benedict, Rouen during the Wars of Religion; Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross; and Davis, Society and Culture. 59 contrary to propriety about it, I tolerated the practice of a small number of people taking part in this singing and comporting themselves with sufficient gravity. But as time passed, the quantity and energy of these singers expanded so greatly, that we witnessed a group of more than one hundred people leave l’Athénée, at the confluence of the Saône and the Rhône, and march towards the center of the city while singing bare-headed […] continuing their public singing, they irritated the canons, and upset the magistrate who had, up until then, permitted their public singing. The [civil authorities] got scared and had the singing of psalms prohibited by royal edict.191 The threat of Protestantism – whether in the form of “secretive” conclaves or public rowdiness – was of the utmost danger because it was internal. Protestants, as Christians, could pollute the community through their heresy; their beliefs, their practices put everyone’s salvation at risk. The essential distinction between internal and external menace is markedly wellillustrated in an anonymously published Protestant play (which was probably by Louis de Masures), La musique de David, ou est demonstrée la rejection des Juifs et la reception des Gentils, printed in Lyon by Jean Saugrin in 1566.192 Abraham, Moses, David, and Jesus are strikingly characterized through their musical roles in this play, particularly as Jesus enters singing in the superius range, and as all of these figures join together in a “motet,” for which Abraham (Faith) then sings the bass, Moses (Law) the altus, and David (Psalmist) the tenor. When a Jew arrives on scene, they break into another “motet” for his benefit – which turns out to be Goudimel’s harmonization of the first couplet of Bèze’s translation of Psalm 59. A long dialogue ensues, wherein the Jew rejects the new singer, Jesus. They continue with their musical conversion, nonetheless, as a Gentile approaches, and Jesus suggests that they sing another “motet” – this time Goudimel’s 1564 setting of Marot’s translation of the Nunc dimittis. This new listener likes what he hears, so he agrees to be baptized as a Christian, and takes up the tenor melody of the Nunc dimittis. These scenes are remarkable as musical iterations of othering, not only because the Gentile is converted through psalm singing, but also because the Jew is simply dismissed. This traditional “other,” classically demonized in medieval religious theatre, does not have ears for the new songs of Jesus – which, it turns out, are popular Protestant psalm and canticle settings. Such Protestant psalms would transform as they were deployed in different spheres; as we will see, some even became timbres for inflammatory polemic. The noel, the form and practice of which was so closely allied to community sentiment, would similarly be mined for 191 192 Claude Baduel, letter from June, 1551, in M. J. Gaufrès, “Baduel à Lyon,” Bulletin de la société française d’histoire de la protestantisme français (1874): 396-408, “Avant mon arrivée à Lyon, l’habitude s’était de chanter des psaumes le soir, apres le souper, en parcourant les rues dans les divers quartiers de la ville. Quand j’ai pris la charge de l’Eglise j’ai toléré, sans le goûter beaucoup, un usage qui n’avait rien de contraire à la bienséance, un petit nombre de personnes prenant part à ces chants et se comportant avec une suffisante gravité. Mais avec le temps, le nombre et l’entrain des chanteurs se sont tellement accrus, qu’on a vu un groupe de plus de cent personnes partir de l’Athénée, au confluent de la Saône et du Rhône, et se diriger vers l’intérieur de la ville en chantant à tue-tête […] continuant leur chants en public, [ils] ont irrité les chanoines et ému le magistrat qui jusqu’alors avait permis ls chants. Il a pris peur et fair défendre, par édit royal, de chanter les psaumes.” Translation mine. I draw my discussion of this play from Frank Dobbin’s ground-breaking article “Music in the French Theatre of the Late Sixteenth Century,” Early Music History 13 (1994): 85-122. 60 timbres amenable to Catholic propaganda. Techniques of communitas, aimed initially at the Lyonnais emotional community – an entire Christian community – would soon come to violently mark out new boundaries. On June 5, 1561, the Feast of Corpus Christi, Lyon bustled with tension, as archers were brought in to forestall anticipated Protestant attacks. The city had seen a botched Protestant coup the previous year, and emotions were on edge as the procession moved across Lyon. When a stranger, an “homme de mestier et mecanique,” Denys de Vallois, threw himself upon the ciborium, all hell broke loose.193 He was immediately arrested, and, admitting that he had premeditated this sacrilege, his hands were cut off, and he was hanged in front of Saint Nizier, where his body was burned. None of this appeased the crowds, who took up arms, attacking and mutilating people they took to be Protestants. When the mob happened upon the Collège, they pulled out Aneau, and, after giving him several blows with swords, halberds, and other sticks that people had with them, he was inhumanely killed and murdered and left lying dead in the middle of the street, to the great scandal of the little children, young students and older students who were at the Collège.194 Following the narrative set out by Claude de Rubys, Jesuit scholars Niceron, Ménestrier, Moreri, and Colonia all claimed that Aneau was murdered in 1565, after a stone had been thrown from a window of the Collège.195 That story (which emerged once Aneau was long out of the picture and the institution was being taken over by the Jesuits) removes any onus from the polemical mouths of the Jesuits. These Fathers had been pushing for control of the Collège since at least 1560, and given the proclivities of figures like Émond Auger (to whom I will turn in Chapter Three), some were likely fomenting contempt for Aneau’s supposed penchant for Catholic mimicry. The violence that was played upon Aneau’s body would not end with this sacrifice. Public aggression, in fact, intensified to the point of mass cleansing; and, as we will see, the affect that generated such violence was often flamed by musical polemic. Aneau’s murder was not unique in the fact that it was sparked by an attack on the Corpus Christi procession. The emotional violence that stemmed from such rites seems to follow from the fact that the religious community theatre of mystères and miracles, productions wherein community members practiced the techniques of Christian mimesis, emerged from dramatic activity that was, above all, stimulated by the public procession of the Sacrament for the Feast of Corpus Christi.196 Aneau came to prominence in Lyon just as confessional tensions began to be made manifest. As a public figure, he was implicated both with this rising conflict, and with concerns about communitas. The pedagogical system that he devised for the students of the Collège de la Trinité aimed, humanistically, at creating little philosophers – boys who began their training as civilized citizens in “bon lionnois.” Through public affective play, Aneau’s theatrical pedagogy 193 194 195 196 Biot, Barthélemy Aneau, 20. A. Péricaud, quoted in Ibid., 21, “après luis avoir baillé plusieurs coups d’épées, de hallebardes et autres bâtons sur sa personnes, l’auraient inhumainement tué et occis et layssé mort étendu au milieu de la rue, au grand scandale des petits enfans, écoliers et autres étudiants audict collège.” Biot, Barthélemy Aneau, 23. Muir, The Biblical drama of medieval Europe, 24. 61 taught the youth of the Collège how to adequately perform as citizens of the city, how to occupy their roles in Lyon using prepared, purposeful gestures. In Lyon Marchant, students had to commit to mastering the expressions of the French language, memorizing a complicated allegorical tale, and executing clever linguistic games. In the Chant Natal, younger grades of students presented the persuasive intertextuality of religious musical contrafacture. As Aneau put together plays for his students to perform communitas, he transformed widely practiced Lyonnais community theatrics into elite spectacles. His Chant Natal in particular emphasized the importance of sticky media – the noels that circulated popularly around the city – while also making use of the community building potentials of polyphony. It was in the least public of his theatrical prints, however, that Aneau offered the fullest exhibit of his patented techniques of communitas. Addressed to a general Christian audience, Genethliac was neither for the Collège to perform, nor was it necessarily meant to be staged. Genethliac was instead a compilation of powerful pedagogical techniques – emblematic organization, theatrical gesture, and affective community practice – which were tied together using the appealing jouyssance of music. Suggesting meditative reception from his audience as he presented his material in emblematic form, Aneau’s Genethliac was only fully realized when voices joined together in harmony. Aneau made the reconciliatory tone of his print explicit in his preface, and these peaceful goals were aesthetically emphasized as the musical emblems wrapped epigrams of oppositional parties into the same polyphonic textures. Regrettably, this communitas could only be performed in print. 62 Example 1. 3: Reconstruction of “Salutation Angelique à la Vierge” Aneau, Genethliac (1559) 63 64 Example 1.4: Reconstruction of “Venue des Roys Mages vers Herodes Roy de Judée” Aneau, Genethliac (1559) 65 Example 1.5: Reconstruction of “Branle des Bergiers, & Bergieres” Aneau, Genethliac (1559) 66 67 Chapter Two: Lyon’s Musical Martyrs Tongues and Psalms Candidly horrified, Eustache Knobelsdorf, a Catholic German student residing in Paris, recounted the execution of the Protestant, Claude Le Painctre in 1541: [He] was a very young man, not yet with a beard [...] He was brought in front of the judges and condemned to have his tongue cut out and to be burnt straight after. Without changing the expression of his face, the young man presented his tongue to the executioner’s knife, sticking it out as far as he could. The executioner pulled it out even further with pincers, cut it off, and hit the sufferer several times on the cheek with it. It is said that those nearest in the crowd [...] picked up the still throbbing tongue and threw it in the young man’s face.197 Bloody descriptions of the removal of tongues abound in martyr stories – particularly in 1541, when dismemberment was still a typical part of heretics’ sentences in France. Cutting out tongues had the obvious symbolic function of eliminating the bodily apparatus that had allowed for heretical ideas to be uttered; it also had the practical value of silencing the sentenced – an issue that came to prominence with the increasing failure of the official “theatre of martyrdom” in France.198 In 1560, Protestants started to be hanged for the political crime of sedition; but before this, they had been burned in order to remove “heretical” impurities from the Christian body of believers. Burning heretics in France asserted the French Crown’s Catholicity in public, while also performatively exhibiting punishment.199 The state did not take burning heretics lightly; in fact, it far preferred to have the guilty recant than become potential martyrs. Burning was a last resort, and one that was carefully molded to what David Nicholls has identified as a production, which (up until 1560) took the form of four acts for the clergy and three acts for lay people – moving from degradation, to expulsion, to destruction. This “theatre of martyrdom,” as Nicholls calls it, aimed to cleanse a community sullied by heresy, and it unfolded using typical Catholic ritual forms. As explored in Chapter One, one could only be a Christian heretic if one were a Christian – which is to say that Muslims and Jews were not heretics, but infidels. The particular threat of the heretic was constituted by their identification as internal to the Christian community, for this meant that their presence could pollute the body social and put the salvation of the entire community at risk. As such, the theatre of martyrdom, the erasure of heretics, was definitively a performance of cleansing. 197 198 199 From a letter to George Cassander, Professor of Theology at the college of Bruges. Quoted in David Watson, “The Martyrology of Jean Crespin and the Early French Evangelical Movement, 1523-1555” (Ph.D diss., University of Saint Andrews, 1997), 85. I borrow this phrase from David Nicholls, “The Theatre of Martyrdom in the French Reformation,” Past and Present 121 (1988): 49-73. To some degree, these were the early phases of sovereign power and punishment made visible, as the concept is argued by Michel Foucault: “The tortured body is first inscribed in the legal ceremonial that must produce, open for all to see, the truth of the crime.” Discipline and Punish: the birth of the prison (New York: Pantheon Books, 1977), 35. 68 In the first act of this theatre, if the heretic were a member of the clergy, he would slowly have all of the symbols of his service removed; many heretics (clergy and lay) were also dressed in fool’s clothing. In the second act (or first act for lay people), the amende honorable, the heretic abased her or himself before God, king, and justice, and begged forgiveness in front of a significant venue – like a cathedral, or a church whose cult the heretic had critiqued; this act often involved mutilation, in order to remove the bodily tool of blasphemy (especially tongues). The act most pertinent to this chapter was the third, which took the form of a procession, typically winding through busy parts of the city, to create a spectacular display of united solemnity and mockery. In the most politically charged burnings, the procession mushroomed into a grand assertion of Catholic solidarity by marshaling an embodied representation of the city’s social hierarchy, including the royal family, the courts, the university, religious orders, city government and artisan guilds. Whether this parade was grand or small, processionally dragging the victim through the city could result in chaos and had the potential to destroy the message of the ritual. While being mockingly marched through town, many martyrs took the opportunity to vocalize their piety – generally both preaching and singing psalms. This proved problematic enough to the function of the rite that, by the 1550s, if the victim’s tongue had not been cut out, she or he would usually be gagged with a block of wood or a tennis ball.200 In contrast to the account I gave of Le Painctre’s execution, which was narrated by a Catholic student, the majority of martyr stories derive from propagandistic martyrologies. For Calvinists, the most important of these was surely Jean Crespin’s authorized Livre des Martyrs, first published in Geneva in 1554. According to Crespin, this magnum opus was not inspired by martyrdoms that he had witnessed – such as Le Painctre’s – but by the martyrdom of five students burned in 1553 in Lyon: namely, Martial Alba, Pierre Navihères, Pierre Escrivain, Bernard Seguin, and Charles Favre.201 These five had been attending the Protestant Académie in Lausanne and had decided to return to their home country, supposedly to proselytize. They were arrested in Lyon on May 1, 1552, held for a year, tried in absentia by the Parliament of Paris, and convicted of heresy. Crespin recounts the glory of their martyrdom: ‘Fortified through continuous prayers and meditations in prison, the happy day of their deliverance’ arrived, on May 16, 1553, at nine o’clock in the morning. After being sentenced to death in the Parc de Rouane, they were held until two o’clock in the afternoon, awaiting their march to the stake. During this time, the five martyrs prayed to God ‘with great ardor, and a vehemence that was admired by observers’ – some of them prostrated on the ground, the others looking upwards towards the sky. Then they began to ‘rejoice in the Lord and sing psalms to Him.’ Dressed in grey [penitent] robes, and latched together, they were put on a cart, where they began to sing Psalm 9, “I will praise thee with all my heart.” 200 201 Nicholls, “Theater of Martyrdom,” 63. Jean Crespin, Actes des Martyrs déduits en sept livres (Geneva: Jean Crespin, 1564), fol. 2v., “Des cinq Escoliers sortis de l’escole de Lausanne, bruslez en la ville de Lyon, à bon droit je puis dire qu’ils m’ont donné la premiere occasion de m’appliquer à recueillir les escrits de ceux qui sont morts constans au Seigneur; lequel au milieu des tenebres des prisons horribles, leurs donna moyen (maugré toute contradiction, et invention de brusler les procez) de rediger par escrit les procedures tenues contre eux, leurs Responses et Epistres consolatoires qu’ils ont envoyées cà et là à leurs amis.” 69 Finally arriving at the stake, the five martyrs kissed one another, saying “To God [A Dieu], my brother.” Filing onto the pyre from the youngest to the oldest, they were all bound and chained to the same post, with a cord tied around their necks, so that they were nearly suffocating. Their faces were greased, and sulfur and straw was spread around them – but none of this hastened the fire, and the five martyrs were heard for some time, crying to each other, “Courage, my brothers, courage.” ‘These were the last words heard from the middle of the fervent fire, which soon after consumed the bodies of these five valiant champions and true Martyrs of the Lord.’202 What Crespin (amongst others) understood, and what Calvin would eventually endorse, was that martyrology was key to creating a propaganda of identity, as it took the idealized actions of certain figures to metonymically represent the essence of the community. In fact, the 1550s was the period during which Protestant propaganda in France was at its most efficacious, as polemical rhetoric focused on the persecution of the faithful, and recounted their martyrdom – an emotional concept with a familiar Christian basis, yet one which had not been emphasized in contemporaneous situations since the medieval period. In the same year that Jean Crespin’s Book of Martyrs (Livre des Martyrs) was first printed in Geneva, a collection of chansons spirituelles was issued there, printed by Guillaume Guéroult and his father-in-law Simon du Bosc: Suyte du Premier Livre des chansons spirituelles. Contenant cinq chansons composees par cinq Escoliers detenus prisonniers à Lyon pour le tesmoignage de nostre Seigneur Jesus Christ, en l’an 1553, au moy de Juing: & qui depuis souffrire[n]t mort cruelle soustenans constamment la querelle de l’Evangile / D’avantage y avons adiousté quelques autres Chansons spirituelles, comme la fin du livre vous enseignera. MDXXXXXIIII – or what I will call the Martyr Songs. Presenting “spiritual songs” in the voices of these five martyrs, this collection was printed for a growing Protestant public. The Martyr Songs points to how the chanson spirituelle, a genre related to the noels that I explored in Chapter One, came to be deployed specifically as a Protestant technique of communitas.203 This genre moved across civic, spiritual, and theatrical lines, interacting with multiple registers of publication, or “making public.” This collection circles back to Crespin’s story of the five martyrs from Lausanne, where music marked a significant transition, as the students moved between acts of the theatre of martyrdom (from the sentencing to the parade through town) while singing a specific psalm – one that speaks both of rejoicing in God, and of God’s vengeance on the wicked (the speaker’s enemies, in particular). Psalm singing was to be a standard feature in Protestant martyrology and quickly became identified with Calvinists generally. As we shall see, these Martyr Songs played on the importance of French psalms for the Protestant habitus. The Martyr Songs characterize an important moment for articulations of Protestant propaganda: when two dominant tropes were both emergent and powerful, not only within the 202 203 Jean Crespin, Livre des Martyrs, qui est un recueil de plusieurs Martyrs qui ont enduré la mort pour le Nom de nostre Seigneur Iesus Christ, depuis Iea[n] Hus iusque à ceste année present M.D. LIIII. L’utilité de ce recueil est amplement demonstrée en le preface suyvante (Geneva: Jean Crespin, 1554). A good portion of this excerpt is basically a verbatim translation, but extracted from different sections of the martyrology (I have gathered the sections that report specifically on the theatre of martyrdom here); I have put particularly propagandistic phrases from Crespin in scare quotes. All translations of Crespin are my own. See Chapter One of this dissertation for an explanation of my use of the term “techniques of communitas.” 70 economy of faith, but also within secular political affective economies. First, the rhetorical trope that had the greatest affective force for French Protestants was that of martyrdom – at least until their increasing militarization in the 1560s.204 Second, the musical practice that would have the mightiest affective power within Protestant ideology was becoming specifically connected to Calvinists: the French translations of the psalms. As I will examine in this chapter, both of these tropes charged the chansons spirituelles “composed” by five young martyrs with additional meanings, to great effect. In assessing the political efficacy of song, it is crucial to remember that this collection of chansons spirituelles emerged within a network of quasi-oral circulation, where edicts were officially “published” by being cried in public squares and news was still largely spread orally. The publics of Lyon and Geneva demanded news of rising confessional conflict, and craved the polemic that shot off the presses and resonated through the streets. Surveying discursive interactions across these cities, this chapter asks how a subversive collection of spiritual songs that capitalized on the martyrdom of five young students came to be, and how it may have functioned as affective cultural capital, propagated across networks fraught with religious tension. The Martyrs’ Stage By addressing a collection published in Geneva, I am focusing on forms of dissemination that carried marks of social identity across borders; I am, however, also emphasizing the somatic experiences of such identity in the city of Lyon, since the persecution and display of these martyrs took place within the city walls, as did (most likely) the reception of the Martyr Songs. Particularly during the 1540s, with several strong Protestant print shops capable of setting musical type, Lyon provided Geneva with most of its musical publications.205 Indeed, Lyon had an increasingly robust Protestant contingent throughout the 1550s, such that they took over the city’s governance with a coup in 1562. The successes of the Protestant faction in Lyon afforded great opportunities for movement between the cities, and we often find printers and musicians moving back and forth; in fact, Laurent Guillo has asserted that, when considering Protestant musical publication, Lyon and Geneva should be examined together.206 The performance of social identity in Lyon, which became strongly infused with confessional polemic in the 1550s, thus harbored conspicuous Genevan influences. By focusing on the Martyr Songs, this chapter explores the affective actions that were solicited by the public performance of faith (both physical and redacted) and disseminated through distributions networks between Lyon and Geneva. One of the most immediate and emotional forms of news that circulated between these cities concerned the persecution of heretics. Executions had long been a favored subject of quickly-produced print (canards, pamphlets, broadsheets) and of public discourse more broadly. 204 205 206 Racaut, Hatred in Print, 63-65. Musical editions that were attempted during the 1540s in Geneva, which were minimal to begin with, were “badly printed,” according to Laurent Guillo, Les Éditions Musicales de la Renaissance Lyonnaise (Paris: Klincksieck, 1991), 67. This included the Forme des Prières of 1542, which was full of errors. Music printing took off there in the 1550s, with the production of a huge number of psalm collections. See Guillo’s index of Genevan musical editions. Ibid., 443-462. Ibid., 61-108. 71 The proudly Catholic Lyonnais Jean Guéraud’s dairy, for one, describes royal events, the lives of civic notables, and militaristic victories, but it opens with an account of the execution of the suspected assassin, Montecucully: The 7th of October 1536 a Ferrarese Italian named Sebastien de Montecucully was quartered in this city of Lyon in the place de la Grenette, pulled by four horses for having poisoned [...] the very esteemed prince and sire Mr François, first son of François […] King of France.207 The relative silence about executions in his diary from the 1530s into the 1540s points not to their lack of importance, but, rather, to their rarity; there is a new focus, however, on executions in Lyon beginning in 1553 – attention that is concordant with Henry II’s increasing persecution of heretics from 1547-1555:208 Saturday, the 15th day of July 1553 Mathieu Dymonet was condemned to be burned alive on the ditches [and] he was executed that day at three o’clock in the afternoon, dying as obstinately as ever did a poor and miserable heretic. Never was a man more persuaded and admonished to give up his damnable opinion by so many men of justice, men of the church, and other good men of the city. And beyond all of this his poor mother came to find him three times in prison and kneeled down in front of the poor wretch, her son, crying for mercy and praying that, for the love of God, he have pity on him and on her, something that was directly against nature and not customary that a mother would debase herself like this for her child. I pray to God that we may always keep his Holy Catholic faith. Amen.209 Immediately prior to this journal entry, Guéraud also recorded the execution of the five students from Lausanne, similarly stressing their obstinacy: Tuesday the 16th day of May 1553 five heretics who said that they were from 207 208 209 Guéraud in Tricou, La Chronique Lyonnaise, 27, “Le 7e d’Octobre 1536 un Italien ferrarois nommé Sebastien de Montecucully fust escartellé en ceste ville de Lyon en la place de la Grenette et tiré à quatre chevaux pour avoir empoisonné au mois d’aoust précédant très illustre prince et seigneur Mr François, premier fils de François […] Roy de France.” Henry II famously established a second Tournelle within the Parliament of Paris, exclusively for heresy cases, called the Chambre Ardente (or burning chamber). Watson, “The Martyrology of Jean Crespin,” 109-110. Guéraud in Tricou, La Chronique Lyonnaise, 70-71, “Le samedy 15e jour de juillet 1553 fust condampné Mathieu Dymonet à estre brullé tout vif sur les fossés et fust executté led. jour à troys heurs apprès midy mourant aussy obstiné que oncques fit pauvre et malheureux hérétique. Car jamais homme ne fust plus persuadé et admonesté de délaisser sa dampnable opinion qu’il fust tant des gens de Justice, gens d’esglise qu’aultres gens de bien de la ville. Et oultre tout cella sa pauvre mère le vint trouver par troys foys en prison et se agenouillant devant led[it] pauvre malheureux son fils luy cria mercy et pria pour l’honneur de Dieu qu’il eust pityé de luy et d’elle, chose qui estoit directement contre nature et non accoustumée qu’une mère s’humilia ainsy envers son enfant. Je prie nostre Seigneur nous voulloir maintenir toujours à sa Saincte Foy Chatolicque [sic]. Amen.” Emphasis mine. Interestingly, the trope of the mother coming to beg the condemned to recant is typical of Protestant martyrology, which tends to follow the structures of Saints’ stories of trial, temptation (often family members’ pleas) and martyrdom. Presented here in the observations of an ardent Catholic, the Saint-story gestures carry greater weight than in Protestant martyrologies. 72 Lausanne were burned. They had been kept for a long time in this city in prison by the Bernese [princes], who they thought would be able to save them […] they were burned on the ditches of the Marché aux Pourceaux [Pig Market], all five together at three o’clock in the afternoon. They died in such obstinacy in their confusion and folly that many people were captivated [by this display] for a long time.210 Guéraud’s criticism of the students as “obstinate” referred to their unwillingness to recant; Catholics typically saw such obstinacy as negative, and, indeed, heretical. At the same time, Guéraud also commented on the attention that these students received within the city, particularly for their surprising (perhaps theatrical) resoluteness. Coming from a Catholic perspective, this depiction gives more credence to the steadfastness that is portrayed in Protestant descriptions like Créspin’s above. Despite executions being a common part of urban experience in the sixteenth century, they were, nonetheless, not normal. They were, in fact, very notable; indeed, this was part of the demonstrative purpose of state punishment. As the Protestant elite started to push for greater rights of worship, confessional conflict began to erupt with increasing frequency in the early 1550s in Lyon – as did public burnings of heretics. The increasing number of executions during the 1540s and 1550s actually gave fodder to the Protestant cause, as their figureheads capitalized propagandistically on the publicness of the executions and the steadfastness (or obstinacy, to Catholics like Guéraud) of the burned Protestants. In short, this penalization furnished the opportunity to cultivate an emotionally persuasive mode of martyrology. The codification of proper martyr behavior achieved its most authoritative presentation in Crespin’s magnum opus, the Book of Martyrs. As noted above, according to Crespin, despite having witnessed several heretics’ executions, it was the story of the five students from Lausanne that compelled him to compile his martyrology. Guéraud’s journal entry makes it clear that the imprisonment and plight of these students was widely known within Lyon, and news surrounding their persecution had also become common currency in Geneva almost as soon as they were apprehended in May of 1552.211 Knowing the supportive enthusiasm that this case had drummed up in Geneva and in Protestant communities across France, Crespin was tapping into an affective economy that centered on notions of Christian suffering.212 That is, connecting the Calvinist faith to the tribulations of ancient Christians proved to be one of the strongest tropes for unifying the 210 211 212 Ibid., 69, “Le mardy 16e jour de may 1553 furent brullés cinq heretticques qui se disoient estre lauzanne qui avoient esté entretenuts longuement en ceste ville aux prisons par ceulx de Berne lesquels les pensoient bien saulver [...] furent brullés sur les fossés du marché aux pourceaux tous cinq ensemble à troys heures après midy lesquels moururent en sy grand obstination en leurs malhenotes et follies que beaucoup de peuple et aultre longièrent une bien grande constance.” Calvin states in his correspondence with the five prisoners, “As soon as you were taken, we heard of it, and knew how it had come to pass.” Calvin in Jules Bonnet, The Letters of John Calvin: compiled from the original manuscripts and edited with historical notes, 2 vols. (Ediburgh: Thomas Constable and Co, 1855-57), 2: 335. Crespin was also drawn to the story of these five youngsters because of the wealth of materials available that documented their experiences. In fact, Crespin considered their persecution to offer an ideal martyrological model; his plan with the five students was to provide a “pattern and example” of a martyrology, allowing a sense of direct contact with each martyr through personal writings, such as confessions of faith, and epistles, as well as records of the case. Jean-François Gilmont, Jean Crespin: editeur réformé du XVIe siècle (Geneva: Droz, 1981), 167. 73 emergent practice of Protestantism with the early Church.213 Binding the original Christian martyrs together with contemporary Protestant “witnesses” clarified this relationship – with great emotional weight, no less. During the 1550s, being sacrificed to the vengeance of the Catholic enemy was promoted as the greatest honor to Calvinists. In fact, in corresponding with these five prisoners, Calvin instructed them: Doubtless, for a long time past, you have meditated upon the last conflict which you will have to sustain, if it be His good pleasure to lead you thereto [...] if He has promised to strengthen with patience those who suffer chastisement for their sins, how much less will He be found wanting for those who maintain his quarrel – those whom He employs on so worthy a mission as being witnesses for His truth.214 Calvin’s admonitions to welcome the opportunity to witness God through death were rearticulated joyfully in the documents that Crespin published in his martyrology. For example, in an epistle to his fellow prisoners, Pierre Escrivain proclaimed: “If it pleases Him that we endure for His Name, & seal His truth with our blood: alas, brothers, give Him thanks: because we will be five thousand times happier. To die for Christ, in following the Apostle, is to our benefit.”215 By the time Crespin’s Book of Martyrs was published, however, official forms of punishing heretics had begun to lose their mass appeal. By the mid-1550s when these five students were burned, audience interest in and sympathy for the theatre of martyrdom was in decline; by around 1557, crowds disrupted the ritual process and began to demand participation in the executions.216 Crespin’s Book of Martyrs, then, emerged during a time when the acts of martyrdom and the valence that they carried for the martyred, the observers, and the state powers were transforming. While Crespin’s opus continued to accrue meanings (and, indeed, many fresh martyrs), its indexical work was purposefully static from its first edition of 1554, to the final 213 214 215 216 See, for example, Beat Hodler, “Protestant Self-Perception and the Problem of Scandalum: a Sketch,” and Markus Wriedt, “Luther’s Concept of History and the Formation of an Evangelical Identity,” in Protestant History and Identity in Sixteenth-Century Europe, 2 vols., ed. Bruce Gordon (Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1996), 2: 23-45. Calvin in Bonnet, The Letters of John Calvin, 374. Calvin’s stance on martyrdom started off lukewarm (see his Institutions of 1536), but became emphatically enthusiastic. By 1552, he was encouraging the faithful to expect persecution and joyfully accept martyrdom, as confessing their faith was more important than worldly life. See Jean Calvin, Institution de la religion chrestienne, 4 vols. (Geneva: Jean Girard, 1553-58), which contains minimal reference at all to martyrs; compare with “Le second sermon, contenant exhortation à souffrir persécution pour suyvre Jesus Christ et son Evangile,” Ioannis Calvini opera, ed. G. Baum et al, 62 vols. (Brunsvigae: C.A. Schwetschke et filium, 1868-1900), 8: 393-408. Crespin, Livre des Martyrs, fols. 397-398, “Que si luy plaist que nous endurions pour so[n] Nom, & pour seeler sa verité par nostre sang, helas, freres, rendons luy graces: car nous serons cent mille fois plus heureux. Mourir pour Christ, en suyvant l’Apostre, nous est gain.” Protestant martyrs were supposed to accept these ritual acts that separated them from the community in order to remove them from its “Papist” corruption; these martyrs also subverted the Catholic meaning of the theatre by impressing their audience with their steadfast faith. Because authorities in France only selected the most committed Protestants to burn, they unwittingly confirmed the Calvinist view of martyrdom: “According to Calvin, without the certainty of faith martyrdom is meaningless and the deliberate courting of death unnatural, so knowledge of correct doctrine is vital.” Nicholls, “Theatre of Martyrdom,” 67. 74 authoritative version of 1570.217 That is, Crespin’s (literary) martyrs followed certain protocols of action: their faith would repeatedly be tested (by physical suffering, by a pleading family member, etc.), and they would remain demonstratively steadfast (converting others, preaching while on the pyre, etc.) – all established tropes of the early Christian martyrs.218 As noted above, the five students from Lausanne fit perfectly into the ideal martyr mold, such that Crespin saw fit to fill about forty percent of his 1554 edition with material pertaining to the martyrs of Lyon.219 Throughout these documents – letters home, communications with Calvin, confessions of faith – the students deploy ideal scriptural references and exhibit a constant strength of faith. Given that they had just emerged from the Protestant Académie in Lausanne, they would have received thorough training in scripture and would have understood well the behavior that was expected of them as martyrs.220 It is thus quite possible that they were, indeed, the authors of these documents. Nonetheless, Crespin had an obvious leaning towards liberal editing practices, both removing and adding to content in order to ensure the most immaculate picture possible of a perfect Protestant martyr.221 One of the principal scholars of Crespin’s martyrology, David Watson, sees in Crespin’s extreme “editing” a reason to mistrust Crespin’s martyrology as a “reliable source.” In asserting this, Watson acknowledges Crespin’s view of the pedagogical purpose of writing history, but he nevertheless betrays a desire to establish some sort of objective historical knowledge.222 While the Book of Martyrs was obviously not “objective” (it was propaganda, after all), my interest in this text lies more in its approach to history than its “factuality.” My focus is rather on the uses and impacts of pre-orthodox martyrologies, and their relationship to “history” as it was made manifest in networks of public and published faith. The significance of executions for the Lyonnais public meant that recalling the burning of the five students from Lausanne would likely 217 218 219 220 221 222 Crespin produced fourteen editions of the martyrology in eighteen years. When Crespin died in 1572, Simon Goulart took over editorship of the work, and made substantial changes with his four editions produced between 1582-1619. Crespin’s martyrology continued to be published in various forms for 350 years after his death (i.e. until 1922), though most historians have made use of Goulart’s 1619 edition because of its accessibility through a nineteenth-century reprint. See also Watson’s chapter “The Editorship of Simon Goulart,” in “The Martyrology of Jean Crespin,” 165-184. Ibid., 34-7. This percentage includes the other six martyrs who were imprisoned in Lyon alongside the students from Lausanne: Pierre Berger, Matthieu Dimonet [Dymonet], Denys Peloquin, Claude Monier, Louys de Marsac, and his cousin Estienne the carpenter. Their interactions with the students added value to the story of the martyrs from Lausanne, for they included important tales of determined proselytizing, spiritual consolation, and successful conversion of their fellow prisoners. There were deep connections between the training practices in Lausanne and those in Geneva, as, for example, many of the professors at the Lausanne Académie, established in 1547, would move to the Genevan Académie in 1559 during a period of conflict with the Bernese authorities. Karine Crousaz, L’Académie de Lausanne entre Humanisme et Réforme (ca. 1537-1560) (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 101. For example, Crespin does not mention the Flemish nobleman Louis of Berquin’s recantation of 1526 in the story of his martyrdom, as it “would not have lain easily with Crespin’s portrayal of Berquin as a paragon on constancy.” Watson, “The Martyrology of Jean Crespin,” 20. As an example of insertion, Crespin appears to have fabricated a quotation about the martyr Constantin’s humble defiance while awaiting the pain of death by fire, surely because it was a standard, affectively important trope for the reader to imagine. Ibid., 34. “[T]he central theme of this dissertation is that the Histoire is, in fact, far from a reliable source. Written with a profoundly different sense of objectivity than twentieth-century ideals of history-writing, Crespin’s collection must be used with more care and circumspection than has previously been the case.” Ibid., i. Watson re-iterates this emphasis in his article “Jean Crespin and the Writing of History in the French Reformation,” in Protestant History and Identity, 2: 29-58. 75 have provoked a visceral response. As a group execution, the public burning of these youth was remembered as a major civic event, a phenomenal experience for inhabitants of Lyon that underscored connections between the affective powers of martyrdom and Protestant techniques of communitas. Interrogating these relationships may allow us to see how a song might mobilize strong emotions keyed to political events and ritual practices. Martyr Songs As noted above, one of the affective tropes that appeared both throughout Crespin’s martyr “histories” and other (both Catholic and Protestant) reportage is the depiction of Protestant martyrs marching proudly to the pyre while singing the psalms.223 Although the orthodox version of the Calvinist psalms would not emerge until 1562, French translations of the psalms had nonetheless become a symbol of Protestantism by the 1550s. Psalm translation, however, had initially emerged as a generally humanistic project. In fact, there were many coexisting translations and musical settings (monophonic and polyphonic) published by Catholics and Protestants alike throughout the 1540s.224 Despite being condemned by the Sorbonne, singing the French psalms was extremely popular at Court – even the Rex Chistianissimi Francis I and his heir Henri II were said to have had their favorites. The core of the repertoire of psalm translations began with and remained those of the foremost French poet, Clément Marot, whose 50 psalms (or, 49 psalms and the Canticle of Simeon, as psalms 14 and 53 have the same texts) were first set to music in Strasbourg in 1539.225 Although no French poet during this period had the gall to compete with these same 50 psalms, after Marot’s death in 1544, the rest were up for grabs. From 1547 to 1562, numerous poets tried their hand at psalm translations – but Calvin’s Genevan authority had always intended to produce a standard, orthodox psalter out of Geneva.226 Such a project was held at bay by Genevan printers’ initial incapacities with musical type; but once these techniques were brought under control, the official Genevan psalter was released with the standard translations of Marot and the rest completed by Théodore de Bèze; the tunes were anonymous, by Louis Bourgeois, or by Pierre Davantès.227 223 224 225 226 227 At times, Crespin actually edits out reports of ‘psalm’ singing, if they were inadequate – such as the case of Macé Moreau from Troyes. In his edition of 1564, it appears that Crespin augmented his scant information on Moreau through the chronicler Nicolas Pithou (who was writing the history of Troyes for Bèze’s Histoire ecclesiastique project). In Pithou’s account, Moreau sings the following psalm on his way to the gallows: Quand j’ay bien à mon cas pensé Une chose me reconforte, Quand mon corps sera trespassé Mon ame ne sera pas morte. While this is a properly Protestant devotional verse, it is not a psalm. As such, in Crespin’s account this text is removed, and Moreau is recorded as simply “singing a psalm” on his way to his execution. Watson, “The Martyrology of Jean Crespin,” 27- 28. Amongst other musicological work, see Pierre Pidoux’s useful research on the Protestant psalms, especially Le psautier huguenot du XVIe siècle, mélodies et documents, 2 vols. (Bâle: Baerenreiter, 1962-1969). This initial setting was the Aulcuns psaulmes et cantiques mis en chant (Strasbourg, 1539). Translation attempts included contributions from Guillaume Guéroult, as will be discussed, as well as Gilles d’Aurigny, Jean Poitevin, Louis Desmasures and Claude-Barthélémy Bernard. Guillo, Les Éditions Musicales, 69. Compellingly, both of these figures put most of their musical energies towards pedagogy and the French psalms. I will briefly explore Bourgeois’ educational engagements later in this chapter; Davantès, notably, published a 76 Once they had been determinately adopted into Protestant worship and polemic, the singing of French psalms was banned by Henri II in 1558.228 After this period, psalm singing became increasingly connected not only with Protestant martyrdom, but also with Protestant militarism. For example, Protestants sang Psalm 124 – “If it had not been the Lord who was on our side” – as they seized Bourges in 1562. And Psalm 144 – “Blessed be the Lord my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight” – served as the Protestant victory cry after they first resisted the siege at Sancerre in 1572.229 While psalms held special symbolic-affective significance, secular songs also served to inflame Protestant crowds.230 Some of the first French songs that we might label specifically as “Protestant” burst forth in the aftermath of the initial persecution of Protestants in Meaux in 1525. The records of the Parliament of Paris, dated December 29, 1525, contain a letter from Mr. Jehan Leclerc, the lieutenant general of the bailiwick of Meaux, reporting on several songs whose authors he was trying to track down. In his missive, he gives the lyrics of several polemical songs that were circulating around Meaux, including: Ne preschez plus la vérité (sur le chant N’allez plus au bois jouer) Ne preschez plus la verité, Maistre Michel! Contenüe en l’Evangille, Il y a trop grand danger D’estre mené Dans la Conciergerie. Lire, lire, lironsa.231 Stop preaching the truth, Master Michel!232 That is contained in the Gospel, There is too great a danger 228 229 230 231 232 new mnemonic system for singing the psalms in the Pseaumes de David, mis en rhythme francoise par Clement Marot, & Theodore de Besze, avec Nouvelle et facile methode pour chanter chacun couplet des pseaumes sans recours au premier, selon le chant accoustumé en l’Eglise, exprimé par notes compendieuses composées en La Preface de l’Autheur d’icelles ([Geneva]: Pierre Davantès, 1560). Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross, 137. The monopolistic court printers, Le Roy and Ballard nonetheless put out musical editions of the translations of the psalms from 1559 into the 1560s; as the religious wars intensified, however, and the Genevan psalter became increasingly associated with heresy, this production halted in the 1570s, and Le Roy and Ballard returned to printing masses, motets, and chansons. Kate van Orden, Materialities: Books, Readers, and the Chanson in Sixteenth-Century Europe (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015), 231. Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross, 136-144. As will be noted in Chapter Three on Catholic anger and street songs and Chapter Four on the Aumône and processions, Catholics also had a repertoire of inflammatory and militaristic songs, such as the Te Deum and litanies. Henri-Léonard Bordier, Chansonnier Huguenot du XVIe siècle (Paris: Tross, 1870), xv. Translation mine. This is a reference to Michel D’Arande, a friend of Farel’s and the preacher called to Meaux by Bishop Briçonnet. 77 That you will be taken To the Conciergerie [prison] Lire, lire, lironsa. These street songs were perceived as enough of a threat that the Parliament of Paris insisted that the Bishop of Meaux determine who authored them, who was singing them, and who was making them public (“publient”).233 Guillaume Briçonnet, the Bishop of Meaux, responded to these demands by proclaiming his goals of punishing the composers, singers, and publishers of the chansons, and of reasserting the Catholicity of the city through a general procession for God and King.234 The repertoire of such “street songs” was, in fact, not distinct from “spiritual songs” that were written specifically for devotional purposes. Of course, in the obvious sense, “Stop preaching the truth” addressed confessional issues, but from a more secular angle – that of stateinflicted censorship and punishment. By nature, however, the justice exacted by the Crown during this period was largely confessional – which is to say that it had to do with either suppressing “heretical” movements, or quelling the potentially “anarchic” passions of a religiously conflicted populace. Furthermore, within contrafacta practice, the repertoire of timbres was frequently the same, whether the song was political, devotional, dirty, silly, or amorous; indeed, as I will explore in Chapter Three, some of the same timbres were deployed for both Catholic and Protestant contrafacta. Despite these similarities, the chanson spirituelle nonetheless emerged as a distinct classification with its own valences, quickly becoming allied to Protestant practice.235 Its adoption into the Protestant arsenal of techniques of communitas meant that its associations and relationships with the French psalms became especially potent during the 1550s. Within both composed chansons and contrafacta, one significant sub-genre takes the form of a first-person narrative, often in the guise of a complainte.236 These first-person voices may be dominant political figures (the king, the queen, Condé, the Guises, etc.), biblical figures, mythical figures, stereotyped characters (the shepherd and shepherdess were featured as a standard duo, derived from noels), and anonymous peasant, urban, military, and religious dramatis personae. One of the foremost poets of both the chanson spirituelle generally, and the spiritual complainte in particular was Guillaume Guéroult. His Premier Livre des Chansons Spirituelles, published in 1548 in Lyon by the Beringen brothers, was the first collection dedicated to newly-composed (i.e. not contrafacta) chansons spirituelles, with four-voice musical settings by Didier Lupi Second.237 This print saw great success, being released in seven other editions in Lyon, Paris, and La Rochelle. The general appeal of this collection for amateurs 233 234 235 236 237 “Publishing” as a translation here might imply printing – but the implication is really one of “making public.” Ibid., xxj. Again, this processional practice relates strongly to the Aumône-Générale that will be addressed in Chapter Four. For a thorough examination of this genre, see Anne Ullberg, Au chemin de salvation: la chanson spirituelle réformée (1533-1678) (Uppsala: Uppsala Universitet, 2008). For a contextualization and analysis of the complainte genre, see Kate van Orden, “Female ‘Complaintes’: Laments of Venus, Queens, and City Women in Late Sixteenth-Century France,” Renaissance Quarterly 53 (2001): 801-845. Premier Livre des Chansons Spirituelles, Nouvellement composees par Guillaume Gueroult, & mises en Musique par Didier Lupi Second. Dont l’Indice trouverez en la page suyvante (Lyon: Godefroy & Marcellin Beringen, 1548). 78 is obvious, as it is easily singable and set in a basically homophonic four-part polyphony.238 One song from this print, “Susanne ung jour,” actually became the hit chanson spirituelle of the century. Containing hints of the first-person complainte style, this song narrates the story of Susanna and the elders – a biblical reference that Protestants used as a metaphor for the corruption of the Catholic Church hierarchy.239 Probably attempting to hitch onto the success of this first chansons spirituelles publication, Guéroult and du Bosc printed a sequel in Geneva in 1554, the Suyte du Premier Livre des Chansons Spirituelles/Contenant cinq chansons spirituelles composees par cinq Escoliers detenus prisonniers à Lyon – the Martyr Songs. Given Guéroult’s reputation as a poet, he was surely in charge of the selection (or potentially poetic composition) of the content of these Martyr Songs. An in-octavo, the Martyr Songs is printed on somewhat low-grade paper, and consists of twenty folios, making it a slim volume that could have been easily hidden amongst other materials.240 The low-grade paper would have made it relatively inexpensive as a musical print, and its emergence in 1554, not long after the martyrdom of the students, suggests that the collection passed quickly from conception to printing. It was decently set in moveable type, nonetheless, with relative care given to the alignment of the musical staves. As stated in the title, the print contains five songs “of the prisoners at Lyon,” as well as four other chansons spirituelles. The full contents of the print are as follows: LES CINQ CHANSONS des Prisonniers à Lyon. O Seigneur la seule espérance Las à nous Seigneur regarde O nostre Dieu par ta clemence Dedans Lyon ville très renomée Puis qu’adversité nous offence CHANSON PLAINTIVE DE L’HOMME CHRESTIEN pressé de vehemente maladie. Seiché de douleur [Théodore de Bèze] CHANSON PLAINTIVE DE L’EGLISE A SON espoux Jesus Christ par D.D. Seigneur venge le mespris CLEMENT MAROT Auprès d’un poignant buisson [Clément Marot] Si quelque injure l’on vous dit [Marguerite de Navarre] 238 239 240 Didier Lupi’s preface is, in fact, an invitation to amateurs. Given that the story of Susanna and the elders was generally popular, it is not surprising that “Susanne ung jour” was also picked up within polemical Catholic collections of chansons spirituelles, such as Christophe de Bordeaux’s. As I will explore in the following chapter, there could also be combative tendencies in contrafacture, which are particularly present in Bordeaux’s recueil. In comparison with the contrafacta recueils of chansons nouvelles that I will examine in detail in Chapter Three of this dissertation, the Martyr Songs were decidedly less conspicuous. Although these contrafacta recueils were printed in tiny sextodecimo format, they most often had hundreds of pages, and were thus extremely chunky little volumes. 79 All of these pieces are set monophonically, despite the polyphonic implication of the print’s title, “Suyte du premier livre” (since the “premier livre” was in four-part polyphony). These songs also appear to be fully unique musical settings; the texts for most of these pieces, on the other hand, had complicated lives. Three of the appended chansons, for example, are linked to poets who were vital to the Protestant movement: the “Chanson Plaintive de L’homme Chrestien pressé de vehemente maladie” is by Théodore de Bèze, while “Si quelque injure l’on vous dit” is by Marguerite de Navarre; the only indexed poet in the print is Clément Marot, to whom “Auprès d’un poignant buisson” is attributed. These were arguably the three most important poets of the earliest phases of French Evangelism; they were certainly projected retrospectively as such by the later Protestant elite. As noted above, Marot was the most prized translator of the psalms, and his verses were initially set by both Catholic and Protestant musicians; his French version of the psalms comprised the core of the orthodox 1562 psalter, which was completed poetically by Bèze. As Francis I’s sister, Marguerite de Navarre was the most powerful protector of proto-Protestants – though she never confessed to Protestantism herself. Clearly, there was a marked authorizing going on in this collection by plumping it up with figures who were not only some of the most prized French poets, but also incredibly influential political figures in the Protestant world. I will address these issues of authorization as they pertain to these appended poems and their authors below. In a related vein, let us turn to their musical settings. As noted, all of these little tunes appear to be unica – but they are quite certainly in the accessible style typical of both the chanson spirituelle and Protestant psalms. The melodies all span a ninth at most, or as little as a sixth (as in the first song, “O Seigneur la seule espérance”) and are generally shaped in conjunct motion or as outlines of simple intervals (like triads). Any flourishes occur between principal pitches, and move in easily sung arcs. The poems are generally set in sixains and huitains stanzas, and in octosyllabic and decasyllabic lines. Like most psalm settings (and certainly the later 1562 Genevan psalter), each line is typically broken up by a caesura, allowing for groups of amateur singers to co-ordinate naturally; such demarcations also permitted a regulated marching rhythm that was obviously useful for the aggressive parades of early Protestantism, and the subsequent battle marches of the church militant. And as with both monophonic psalter settings and many popular chansons settings, Martyr Songs are all strophic. In sum, all of these songs would have been approachable for an audience with very basic musical training, or familiarity with popular chansons or French monophonic psalms. Drawing on their acquaintance with common tunes, it would have been possible for listeners with no musical training to pick up the Martyr Songs expeditiously. In some ways, the lyrical content of the five martyr songs fits predictably into established chanson spirituelle tropes. Many of the songs draw on devices frequently deployed in the psalms – such as pleading for help against the enemy, or resisting temptation. This last theme, for example, is expressed in “O Seigneur la seule esperance”: Et d’ailleurs embusches nous dresse Satan cauteleux, qui sans cesse Ainsi qu’un Lyon rugissant Nous environne: & fort nous presse De renoncer le Dieu puissant. 80 And elsewhere snares are being drawn upon us By cunning Satan who endlessly Like a roaring lion [Lyon] Surrounds us: and pressures us strongly To renounce [our] powerful God. One of the chansons even blatantly mimics Marot’s translation of Psalm 137: Psalm 137 (Marot) Estans assys aux rives aquatiques De Babylon, plorions melancoliques Nous souvenant du pays de Sion; Et au milieu de l’habitation Ou de regret tant de pleurs espandismes Aux saules vertz noz harpes nous pendismes. Martyr Songs (Guéroult) Dedans Lyon ville tres renommee Nous souspirons en prison bien fermee, Nous souvenans de l’habitation. Du bon pay & congregation, Ou nous foulions, ta[n]t aux champs qu’en la ville Ouyr prescher le tressainct Evangile. This chanson fully replicates the poetic structure of Marot’s Psalm 137 – a verse with six decasyllabic lines in paired rhymes. In large part, it also parallels the poetic content, establishing the physical situation (Babylon/Lyon), and the emotion of nostalgia for the home (Holy) land (Zion/congregation). Initially, one might assume that this was a contrafactum of the psalm, particularly given that the Protestant chansons nouvelles of the era were often written in imitation of the psalms. The entire poetic and musical content of this chanson, “Dedans Lyon ville tres renomee,” in fact, can serve to illustrate the general features of the five martyr songs – both their stereotyped and transgressive aspects (see Figure 2.1 for “Dedans Lyon”). Melodically, the tune circles around A, with a secondary interest on G (or, we could say that it is in tonal type ♮ - A c3). Much like many of the monophonic psalm settings, the melodic pitch emphases follow the rhyme scheme of the poem. That is, the first two lines (renommee/fermee) hover around A, while lines three and four (l’habitation/congregation) meander around G, and line five gradually returns to the final A that is emphasized in line six (ville/Evangile). The whole tune remains within the comfortable span of an octave (E to e). Many features of the tune are typical not only of psalm settings, but more broadly, of the ubiquitous French chanson style. For example, the opening dactylic rhythmic formula occurs so frequently in the French chanson that it is commonly referred to as the “chanson rhythm.” Like so many of the chansons published by Attaingnant in the 1530s, the musical phrases are particularly digestible because, following the poetic structure, they are chopped into two short phrases, first of four syllables, then of six: “Dedans Lyon/ ville tres renommee.” The melodies of each small phrase remain contained within the span of a sixth, and move consistently in conjunct motion; any decorative flourishes (which are all short) are generally filling in a leap (e.g. at “congregation”). This entire tune structure is then repeated for each of the nine verses. Frankly, there is nothing particularly notable about this chanson, or any of the chansons in this collection; “Dedans Lyon ville tres renomee” maintains an amateur simplicity, while displaying enough interest to make it “catchy.” These songs do convey a transgressive character, however – though this is not evinced in their musical quality, but rather in their very un-martyr-like tone, which is to say their unorthodox martyrological voices. The martyrs established in Crespin’s Book of Martyrs – and these five students in particular – are perpetually stoic, solidly faithful. In Crespin’s martyrology, 81 the occasional diversion in these students’ confessions and letters into any suggestion that they hope to be freed is tempered by longer and more excitedly phrased consequent sections describing their utter devotion to God’s will, and the joy that “witnessing Him through death” would bring to them. While these chansons do include many such joy-through-suffering tropes, they often conclude with a surprising affective shift: a plea to God to save them from the pyre. This occurs most strikingly in “Dedans Lyon ville tres renomee,” which refers to the attempt on the part of the Bernese authorities to intervene in the judgment from the French court: Princes Bernoys nous avons esperance, Que Dieu par vous donnera delivrance A nous vos humbles & petis escoliers, Par vous serons de prison deli[vr]ez S’il plaist à Dieu, & au bon roy de France: Et plus n’aurons deda[n]s Lyon souffrance. We have hope, Bernese Princes, 241 That God will give deliverance through you And we your humble and small students, Will be released from prison If it pleases God, and the good king of France: And we will no longer suffer inside Lyon. “O Nostre Dieu par ta clemence” actually begins with an appeal to God: O Nostre Dieu par ta clemence, Permetz que soyons delivrez De la prison, peine & souffra[n]ce, Ou à tort no[us] sommes livrez. O our God, by your clemency Permit that we will be delivered From the prison, pain, and suffering To which we [have been] wrongly sent. After a brief description of some biblical figures that had been saved from suffering (Noah, Joseph, Moses, David, Judith, Jonas, Susanne, and Peter), the chanson then implores: 241 After multiple political appeals to the King of France, in their final letter, the Bernese princes actually took a tone of humility totally out of the ordinary for the Republic of Berne, but obviously this proved to be to no avail. Crousaz, L’Académie de Lausanne, 295. 82 Figure 2.1: “Dedans Lyon ville tres renomee,” Martyr Songs (1554) 83 Conclusion nous voulons dire, Que toute puissance est de toy, Qui fais que rien ne nous peut nuire Icy bas: ne porter émoy. Donc s’il te plaist par ta clemence, Par Jesus Christ delivre nous, Et nous pardonne nostre offence: Ou autrement, c’est faict de nous. In conclusion [what] we would like to say Is that all power is in you, Who ensures that nothing can hurt us Down here: nor bring us distress. Thus, by your clemency, please, By Jesus Christ deliver us, And forgive us our offenses: Or otherwise, we are done for. This is clearly not orthodox martyr behavior. Importantly, though, these inappropriate martyrological voices are being dressed in entirely appropriate music. While the textual content of these songs are thus unorthodox in terms of an emergent Protestant ideology, musically these songs fit perfectly into the moral-aesthetic ideal that was evinced in the only Protestant musical treatise of the sixteenth century, Louis Bourgeois’ Le droict chemin de musique, published in Geneva in 1551. In contrast to musical treatises published during the period that dealt in hot theoretical topics like the modes and counterpoint, Bourgeois’ treatise was entirely utilitarian, simplifying music “theory” (the practical bits) to make it accessible and useful for the amateur church musician.242 Approved by Calvin and the Council of Geneva before going to press, Bourgeois’ text offered faithful Protestants instructions on how to read music so that they could sing the psalms, or maybe some spiritual songs.243 The requisite musical qualities for such devotion were restraint and simplicity, as was relayed through Bourgeois’ examples, all of which are monophonic canticles or psalms.244 The Martyr Songs thus played on the Protestant habitus through their aesthetic similarity to ideal Protestant musical genres (psalms and canticles). Furthermore, they tapped into the broader sensory experience of psalm singing, for the typographical materials used to print the musical notation in the Martyr Songs corresponds with those used in several monophonic Protestant psalters published by key Protestant printers in Lyon during the 1540s1550s. Namely, the typeface is identical to that of the Beringen brothers, the foremost printers of 242 243 244 Most French treatises of the period did generally tend towards the practical, rather than the theoretical. See the excellently curated facsimile selections in Olivier Trachier et al. ed., Renaissance française: traités, méthodes, préfaces, ouvrages generaux, 4 vols. (Coulay, France: Edition Fuzeau, 2005). Pidoux, Le Psautier Huguenot, 2: 47. Robert Copeland, Le Droict Chemin de Musique of Louis Bourgeois (Ottawa: Institute of Mediaeval Music, 2008), 65. For example, Psalm 34 and the Canticle of Simeon. 84 this musical form in Lyon (which initially dominated this printing in France) during this period.245 The visual presentation of the Martyr Songs thus clearly referenced the graphic forms of the Protestant psalter. Authorization and Affective Caché Louis Bourgeois wrote his treatise as the official Genevan cantor, in which role he was charged both with leading congregational singing and with the musical training of children. While this was a minor position politically, it was important in terms of the worship structure of the community. Calvinist ideology heavily emphasized training children in music, and at this early moment of Genevan discipline, the civic authorities had begun to make use of children in order to foster higher standards of communal singing during the service. During Bourgeois’ residency, the authorities decreed that the youth be trained to sing the psalms that were planned for worship, so that they could regulate the mess that the adult congregants were making of them.246 Similarly, during the year of Protestant rule in Lyon, the city council demanded that the orphan children of the Aumône Générale be instructed in psalm singing for an hour everyday. When the master printer Antoine Vincent organized widespread publication of the orthodox psalter of 1562, he not only promised a portion of the profits to the Aumône, he also pledged a donation of a hundred copies – presumably such that the children would read and perform from these psalters in their quotidian exercises.247 In his role as musical pedagogue, however, Bourgeois made a grave mistake: he “corrected” the psalms without Calvin’s permission. In the first edition of psalms printed in Geneva in 1551, Bourgeois made alterations to the melodies of some psalms that had been “incorrect,” and explained his changes in the preface. For this trespass, Calvin kicked him out of the city, and had the printer, one Jean Crespin, burn all of the prefaces.248 Such harsh punishment became characteristic of Calvin’s Geneva. However, in the early 1550s, when Bourgeois was expelled, and when the Martyr Songs was going to print, Calvin’s power was not yet fully established. This was a period of flux, and one that saw a particular contingent contesting Calvin’s role within the city: the “Libertines.” Guillaume Guéroult was connected with this group and seems to have benefited from their protection – so much so that he got away with printing the most contentious (and contested) religious thinker in the sixteenth century. In 1552, Guéroult’s brother-in-law, Balthasar Arnoullet, put him in charge of directing the printing of Michel Servet’s Christianismi restitutio, which he completed in January 1553.249 Servet’s text was considered so heretical by both Protestants and Catholics that they united (even the Libertines were on board) to hunt him down and condemn him; he was burned at the stake in Geneva in the same year.250 Guéroult, on the other hand, was not prosecuted by the Council for his involvement, despite being frequently referenced in Servet’s trial. On his return to Geneva, 245 246 247 248 249 250 See Guillo, Les Éditions Musicales, 301, for the Beringen type. Pidoux, Le Psautier Huguenot, 2: 13-18. AM ACh E10, fol. 440-444 (20 May, 1562). Interestingly, Jean Crespin was the first printer in Geneva to successfully work with musical type. Pidoux, Le Psautier Huguenot, 2: 52-53. This project was accomplished in concert with the printers Thomas de Straton, Jean Du Bois, and Claude Papillon. Guillo, Les Éditions Musicales, 105. 85 Guéroult was simply reprimanded for having been married in a Catholic church, having confessed, and having eaten “la nible” (the Host).251 Clearly, Guéroult was excused for his involvement in the most radically heretical print of the period because of his protection from the Libertine party, who still exercised some power in Geneva at the time. Guéroult was embroiled in further conflict over another sensitive issue upon his return to Geneva that finally saw his exile: the translation of the psalms. Guéroult had set out to print his translation of the remaining psalms (those not translated by Marot), but experienced backlash from Calvin, who wanted to secure Théodore de Bèze’s authorship for the official Genevan psalter. While Guéroult’s controversial printing ventures may have been viable during the early 1550s, once Calvin’s authority was established by 1555, Guéroult (amongst others) suffered the consequences of his political choices. As Calvin’s contingent took power of the Council of Geneva, Perrin and his Libertine followers – seemingly including Guéroult – left the city.252 By contrast, Crespin maintained a quiet political stance and received practically lifelong approbation from Calvin. Following Calvin’s victory over his opponents in 1555, Crespin became a bourgeois and seven years later was appointed to the Council of 200.253 Like those in control of the Sorbonne, authorities in Geneva thus determined what was authorized, and what (or who) would be incorporated into or expelled from the community.254 Guéroult obviously fell afoul of this censorial power, while Crespin prospered through it. My point in exploring these instantiations of Genevan civic authority is to place these two prints – Crespin’s Book of Martyrs and Guéroult’s Martyr Songs – within the frames of orthodoxy and subversion to which these two printers were consigned. It is worth noting that Guéroult published the Martyr Songs immediately following his foray into ultimate heretical publishing (Servet). Perhaps this musical print was an attempt to connect himself to a group of faithful (the students) who had received Calvin’s praise. The result, regardless, was an unorthodox genre of publication that played upon – and perhaps even aimed to shape – the habitus of the common Protestant. While authorization often proved to be a challenge within the context of the Martyr Songs, authorship was rarely contested – which is to say that it was rarely articulated. Chansons in particular were an incredibly anonymous genre type.255 In this vein, it is striking that the title of the collection is stated as “cinq chansons composees par cinq estudiants,” as the term “composees” figures rarely on musical prints.256 The genre of chanson spirituelle is dominated by songs “of” various figures – for example, Guéroult’s Jonas, Susanna, and Jesus. These songs, importantly, are never marked “composed” by Jonas, Susanna, or Jesus. Frank Dobbins has hypothesized that the tunes in the Martyr Songs were written by Guillaume de la Moeulle (who, 251 252 253 254 255 256 Pidoux, Le Psautier Huguenot, 2: 58. Guéroult’s printing in Geneva halted suddenly after 1555. By an edict of the Council of Geneva of 1563, Crespin was one of four printers to own four presses. The others were Henri Estienne, Antoine Vincent, and Laurent de Normandie. Crespin’s and Estienne’s firms were considerably larger than the others. Gilmont, Crespin: un editeur réformé, 61. On the importance that the Genevan Consistory placed on controlling song in particular, see Melinda Latour’s recent article, “Disciplining Song in Sixteenth-Century Geneva,” The Journal of Musicology 32 (2015): 1-39. See Chapter Three, “Authors of Lyric,” in Kate van Orden, Music, Authorship, and the Book in the First Century of Print (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013). When it does appear in reference to music, it is normally either to designate “composées en musique” (which indexes that it is polyphonic), or to specify the number of voices that it is composed for (“composées à quatre parties ...”). 86 at this point, was a sick old singer, living on alms from the Council)257; Dobbins’ only evidence is associative – since de la Moeulle wrote the music for Guéroult’s Premier Livre des Pseaumes et Cantiques, and this first volume is bound with the Martyr Songs in the only surviving edition, held at Cambridge University Library.258 There has thus far been no conclusion as to the authors of these tunes. Given the musical training that was enforced at the Protestant Académie in Lausanne during the time that these five students were in attendance, it is always possible that they composed this music themselves.259 Regardless, the term “composées” was just as likely an authorial gesture on Guéroult’s part, to claim some sort of authorship by these idealized figures. What is important here is simply that the music was notated. As explored above, the most common and efficient way for an editor to publish chansons spirituelles was to insert an indication to “sing to the tune of” a familiar timbre. It is odd that Guéroult did not adopt this technique for two reasons: first, because these are monophonic songs; and second, because they are so psalm-like in their form. His Premier livre de chansons spirituelles of 1548 was of course set in four-part polyphony by Didier Lupi Second, logically warranting musical notation. And again, the Premier Livre des Pseaumes, Cantiques et Chansons Spirituelles were “mis en musique a une et a quatre parties” by G. de la Moeulle.260 With such typical poetic forms, these five Martyr Songs could have been set to extant psalm tunes. For example, the aforementioned “Dedans Lyons ville tres renomee,” which is so faithful to the poetic structure of Marot’s Psalm 137 translation, “Estans Assis Aux Rives Aquatiques,” could have been indexed as a contrafactum on the more or less standardized tune that had been printed in five already extant editions from Strasbourg, Paris, Lyon, or Geneva (i.e. Guéroult surely had access to this tune).261 It would seem, then, that Guéroult was exploiting two layers of affective caché: the propagandistic emotional authority of the five martyrs and the elite caché of printed music. Affective caché had another meaning when we turn to the four appended songs. The poets who wrote three of these – Marot, Bèze, and Marguerite de Navarre – were not only important politically, but also virtuously authorized within the Protestant moral economy. They stood as figureheads of an ideal poetics of Protestant experience. As François I’s sister, Marguerite de Navarre was surely the most powerful of these three: she was the protector of a number of Protestants, and even sheltered Calvin in 1534. Her poem “Si quelque injure l’on vous dit” had first appeared in print in Lyon on the presses of Jean de Tournes in 1547 in the chansons spirituelles of the Marguerites des Marguerites des Princesses, 257 258 259 260 261 For extracts from the Genevan archives referencing Guillaume de la Moeulle’s situation in the 1550s, see Pidoux, Le Psautier Huguenot, 2: 67-68. Dobbins also confusingly claims that the five chansons spirituelles from the Martyr Songs were “purportedly by the cornett-player Claude de La Canesière […] and four fellow Protestant students from Lausanne, who were imprisoned at Lyon in May 1552.” Dobbins, Music in Renaissance Lyon, 193 and 266. There were in fact five students imprisoned together (alongside the six men mentioned above). La Canesière was imprisoned in 1555. The citation that Dobbins offers from Crespin’s 1556 edition of the Recueil de plusieurs personnes qui ont contamment enduré la mort does not appear to yield information about La Canesière’s “purported” compositions. The Martyr Songs is held at CUL, Syn. 8 55 203. On musical instruction in Protestant Lausanne, see Robert Weeda, Le Psautier de Calvin (Turnhout: Brepols, 2002), 109-110. The title pages of the Premier Livre des Pseaumes and the Suyte du Premier Livre des Chansons Spirituelles (the Martyr Songs) point blatantly to a difference in authorial positioning as the title page of the Premier Livre des Pseaumes was “traduitz et composees bonne partie par G. Gueroult,” while the Suyte du Premier Livre was, of course, “composees par cinq escoliers detenus prisonniers ...” This tune and its manifestations in these different prints are given in Pidoux, Le Psautier Huguenot, 1: 122. 87 a collection that was particularly prized in Protestant circles.262 This poem follows an ABABCDD rhyme scheme with the final line repeated at the end of each verse – the famous “Autant emporte le vent” (sometimes translated as “Gone with the wind”). Marguerite takes on a stoic voice in this poem, which is evident from the opening lines: “Si quelque injure l’on vous dit/Endurez-le joyeusement” (“If you are told something hurtful/Suffer it gladly”). Attached to Marguerite’s court from 1519, Clément Marot exerted profound influences on her poetry, editing such collections as the Miroir de l’âme pêcheresse; their creative relationship also went in the other direction, as Marguerite strongly encouraged Marot with his translations of the psalms.263 Marot, more broadly, was considered one of the preeminent poets of the early sixteenth century in France, such that his style was widely imitated; both within and without France, he was hailed as the foundational poet of French Protestantism.264 As noted above, while his translations of the psalms were initially popular with Catholics, they quickly formed the core of French Protestant psalters. Indeed, by the late 1520s, Marot had become openly – and through wittily mocking poems – critical of the Catholic Church, and aggressively attacked as a “Lutheran.”265 As Michael Andrew Screech has argued, tellingly, many poems of doubtful authenticity “collectively […] remind us today that it almost sufficed for a poem to be well written and evangelical for it to be attributed to him by someone or other.”266 Indeed, the song “Auprès d’ung poignant buisson” that is attributed to Marot in the Martyr Songs is perhaps of doubtful authenticity. It seems logical, as well, that this poem may not be by Marot, given that it is the only appended song to receive a full attribution. Apparently the audience was assumed to have knowledge of “Si quelque injure l’on vous dit” and “Chanson plaintif de l’homme chrestien” such that attributions would have been redundant. What seems most important in view of all the authorizing going on within this collection is that it was printed as Marot’s poetry, with the idea that it would have been received as a Marot poem. But this song 262 263 264 265 266 On Marguerite de Navarre’s patronage, see Barbara Stephenson, The power and patronage of Marguerite de Navarre (Burlington: Ashgate, 2004). For a thorough study and edition of Marguerite de Navarre’s chansons spirituelles, see Michèle Clément, ed. Marguerite de Navarre: Oeuvre Complètes, IX: La complaint pour un detenu prisonnier et les Chansons spirituelles (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2001). Marguerite de Navarre’s collection was one of the earliest prints of “chanson spirituelles” and was based entirely on contrafacta of popular songs. Another important collection that followed the same pattern was Hector [Eustorg] de Beaulieu’s Chrestienne Resjouissance. Composé par Eustorg de Beaulieu, natif de la ville de Beaulieu: au bas pays de Lymosin. Jadis Prestre, Musicien & Organiste: en la faulce Eglise Papistique, & despuis, par la misericorde de Dieu, Ministre Evangelique: en la vraye Eglise de Jesus Christ ([Genève: Jean Girard], 1546). Staying true to his title, Beaulieu’s chansons spirituelles are more polemic than those of Marguerite de Navarre, which are generally contemplative. Michel Jeanneret, “Marot Traducteur des psaumes entre le néo-platonisme et la reforme,” Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 27 (1965): 629-43 at 630. The important Marot scholar C.A. Mayer has asserted that Marot was a humanist in a non-Renaissance, who adopted a veneer of Lutheranism. See C.A. Mayer, La Religion de Marot (Geneva: Droz, 1960). This position, however, has been debated by many scholars, such as Michael Andrew Screech, in Clément Marot: a Renaissance Poet Discovers the Gospel: Lutheranism, Fabrism, and Calvinism in the Royal Courts of France and of Navarre and in the Ducal Court of Ferrara (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1994); and Gérard Defaux and Frank Lestringant, in “Marot et le problème de l’évangelisme: à propos de trois articles récents de C.A. Mayer,” Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 54 (1992): 125-130. Marot’s poetry and pseudo-Marotiques were also widely printed and celebrated in the Protestant low countries. See Jelle Koopmans and Paul Verhuyek, “La Légende Facétieuse de Clément Marot dans les Pays Protestant,” Bibliothèque d’Humanisme et Renaissance 53 (1991): 645-661. Screech, Clément Marot, 3. Ibid., 6. 88 also had some level of currency – and likely notoriety – since another contrafactum based on it (“sur le chant ...”) is in the index of prohibited (heretical) books and songs drawn up by the Inquisitor of Toulouse in 1548.267 Significantly, “Auprès d’ung poignant buisson” itself was also censored by the same inquisitor as a song to the classic timbre “Laissez la verde couleur.”268 Within this group of important authors in the Protestant sphere, Théodore de Bèze’s “Chanson plaintif de l’homme chrestien” invites the most thorough musicological inquiry – for the life of this “song” not only instantiates the chanson spirituelle’s involved relationship to psalm translation and psalm setting, it points to potential affective-poetic relationships within Protestant urban centers. In 1551 while residing in Lausanne, Bèze fell gravely ill – an experience that he described in his letters to Viret and Calvin. After recovering his health, he composed the poem that appears in the Martyr Songs, “Chanson plaintive de l’homme chretien pressé de vehemente maladie et se complaignant des ennemis de Dieu.” The poem’s subject sings of his declining body, welcoming his coming death: […] Fy de ceste vie Serve de peché. Toute doute & peur Fuyez de mon coeur, Grands sont mes forfaictz: Mais la bonté seure De mon Dieu m’asseure, Qu’il ha faict ma paix. […] Curse this life Slave to sins. All doubt and fear Flee from my heart, Great are my trespasses: But the true goodness Of my God assures me, That he has ensured my peace. He bids farewell to his France, to his friends, the banished poor, the true shepherds, etc. He decries the unholy state of the world, and praises the truth of God, ending with a voluntaristic statement of sacrifice: O Dieu si tu veux say que tu peux Me tirer d’icy: Mais si pour ceste heure Tu veux que je meure: 267 268 E. De Freville, De la police des livres au XVIe siècle. Livres et chansons mis a l’index par L’inquisiteur de la Province Ecclésiastique de Toulouse (1548-1549) (Paris: Durand, Dumoulin et Tross, 1853), 25. Ibid. See Kate van Orden’s discussion of this timbre in “Female ‘Complaintes’.” 89 Je le veux aussi. O God if you want to Know that you can Deliver me from here: But if at this hour You want me to die: [Then] I want it as well. In the common mode of song identification, the “Chanson de l’homme chretien” was generally referred to by its incipit: “Seiché de douleur.” Indeed, it is labelled as such when it manifests as a timbre for songs in two notable prints from 1562: Bèze’s own Les regrets et adieu du pape (Genève: Jean Girard, 1562), and La Fatale Mutation Lyonnoise (Lyon: n.p., 1562). Both of these prints appeared as part of a wider outpouring of invective and celebratory polemic from the period when Protestants managed to overtake a dozen cities through internal coups in 1562. The “fatale” – which can here be translated as fate in a positive valence – Lyonnais transformation logically referred to the coup that took place in Lyon. A “Cantique sus le chant de Seiché de douleur” is appended at the end of this self-congratulatory verse; but the contents of this “cantique” are, in fact, Bèze’s own translation of Psalm 47 (see Figure 2.2). Figure 2.2: “Or sus tous humains,” La Fatale Mutation (1562) 90 Setting a French psalm to an existing Protestant song would have had obvious affective potential, but setting a French psalm to an existing Protestant song by the same author would have generated an acute sense of inter-referentiality, highlighting the flexibility and timbre-ness of psalm structures themselves. As is expected with the use of a timbre, “Seiché de douleur” and Bèze’s translation of Psalm 47 map onto one another poetically: they are both set in sixains of short five-syllable lines that rhyme aabccb, where the cc lines are feminine endings. Bèze’s psalm translation already existed in a monophonic musical setting as of 1551 in Geneva, and the same tune was re-set in Geneva in 1554 and eventually in the orthodox psalter of 1562, published in both Geneva and Lyon. This begs the question: what “Seiché de douleur” timbre was the 1562 “Cantique” (= Bèze’s Psalm 47 translation) from the Fatale Mutation to be sung to? Why not use the presumably well-known tune that had been relatively standard in official Genevan publications since 1551 for this psalm translation? Was “Seiché de douleur” sung to a common timbre itself? Unfortunately, the extant sources have not revealed answers to these questions so far, but the assumed popularity of “Seiché de douleur” over Bèze’s Psalm 47 tune suggests a form of popular inter-textual circulation that was outside of the purview of print. The sixain in simple five-syllable lines was a common form of poetic writing – though the quippiness of the lines is more attuned to the older Marotique style than the current (elite) trends of the mid-sixteenth century. This structure, importantly, would have made it more absorbable, particularly when set to a (familiar) tune. When Guéroult included “Seiché de douleur” in the Martyr Songs, he was thus tapping its affective power. For this was a poem/timbre that Bèze’s propagandistic contemporaries had deemed a worthy basis for the circulation of his own psalm translation.269 That this official psalm translation was musically disseminated via a timbre underscores the continued pliancy of Protestant psalms in circulation – an attribute that makes it all the more striking when the psalms themselves were applied as timbres. Altogether, the overarching tone put forth in the songs appended to the Martyr Songs collection is one of steadfast acceptance of trials (including, possibly, one’s martyrdom) in defense of one’s faith. Presented through the authoritative voices of Marguerite de Navarre, Clément Marot and Théodore de Bèze, these poetic instantiations amplify the sentiment of the five martyr songs. Furthermore, they are all also set to new music, despite the circulation of several of these poems as contrafacta – again betraying the elite caché of printed music in this collection. Musical Dissemination The Protestant martyr as an affective figure was at the height of its power during these propaganda battles of the mid-to-late 1550s. Unsurprisingly, these same martyr songs “composed by” the students from Lausanne, as well as some of the appended songs, had broad currency in published circulation. One collection printed in 1555, most likely in Geneva, featured these songs within a huge selection of contrafacta: the Recueil de Plusieurs Chansons Spirituelles tant vielles que nouvelles, avec le chant sur chascune: afin que le Chrestien se puisse esjouir en son 269 The power and potential danger of psalm contrafacture in particular is highlighted in the case of Bolsec’s contrafactum of Psalm 23 (written during his imprisonment), which helped to spread his dissenting theology among his supporters. Latour, “Disciplining Song,” 32-39. 91 Dieu & l’honorer: au lieu que les infidelles le deshonorent par leurs chansons mondaines & impudiques deploys the typical rhetoric of converting “wordly” and “impious” secular songs into proper Christian ones. It presents dozens of Protestant contrafacta in a format that strongly resembles many of the mixed secular-devotional collections of “new songs” (chansons nouvelles) that were printed increasingly from the 1550s onwards. And much like the Catholic, Leaguer, and politique collections that will be examined in Chapter Three, these texts provide a variety of devotional lyrics, factional “newsy” reporting, laments of important figures, “lowbrow” mockery, etc.270 There is certainly a greater emphasis within the Recueil, however, on moral edification and narratives concerning Christian suffering. In comparison with later Catholic recueils, songs that suggest violent action are rarely featured; as with the Martyr Songs print, the focus is instead on welcoming persecution and tribulation. In fact, the only song in this print that describes Christian suffering in gruesome detail (piercing the stomach of a pregnant woman; killing, roasting and eating children, etc.), the “Chanson de la desolation de Cabrieres faite par les infideles” ends with the exhortation: “If we suffer with Christ, we will reign with him.”271 Most importantly, in a separate section of “Cantiques,” the Recueil also prints five “chansons des cinq prisoniers de Lyon” to be sung to the tune of five different psalms: O Seigneur la seule esperance (on Psalm 143) Las à nous Seigneur regarde (on Psalm 37) O Nostre Dieu par ta clemence (on Psalm 118) Dedans Lyon ville tres renommee (on Psalm 137) Puis qu’adversité nous offence (on Psalm 46) For sake of clarity, I will continue to refer to Guéroult’s 1554 publication as the Martyr Songs, and I will henceforth refer to the poems that are common to both collections as the martyr songs. The depth of relations between the psalms and the martyr songs comes clear with these contrafacta, for each of the cantiques fits perfectly into the poetic form of each of these psalms. For example, “O Seigneur la seule esperance” maps onto Psalm 143, “Seigneur Dieu oys l’oraison mienne”: they share rhyme schemes of aabab and octosyllabic lines, as well as the same pattern of masculine and feminine rhymes: 270 271 Much like Christophe de Bordeaux’s polemical collection of chansons spirituelles that I will address in the following chapter, the main lyrical type of chanson nouvelle that is missing is that of the love song. Recueil de plusieurs chansons spirituelles, 192, “Si nous souffrons avec Christ, nous regnerons avec luy.” Some of the songs speak to martyrdom more directly. For example, “L’immortalite de l’ame nous fait mespriser les tourmens que souffrons pour le nom de Dieu, sur le chant Les Bourguignons mirent le camp [a very frequently used timbre in Catholic collections, as well]” states: Mes compagnong & bon amis, Devant que mourir, je vous prie, Ne craignez point les ennemis, Qui ne peuvent qu’oster la vie Du povre corps: mais je vous prie Craignez celuy tant seulement Qui peut, s’il en avoit envie, Mettre ame & corps a damnement. Ibid., 146. 92 Psalm 143 (Marot) Seigneur Dieu oys l’oraison mienne Jusqu’à tes aureilles pervienne Mon humble supplication Par la juste clémence tienne Responds moy en affliction272 Recueil de Plusieurs Chansons Spirituelles O Seigneur la seule esperance De tous ceux qui sont en souffrance Et le bouclier tresseur & fort, De tost nous secourir t’avance, Et nous garder en ceste effort. Assuming that these psalms had currency in the specific community that the Recueil may have travelled to, these cantiques thus played on the Protestant habitus even more blatantly than the Martyr Songs collection. And this was definitely not the only print to take advantage of the devotional, political, militaristic, and emotional alliances between the French psalms and Protestantism that had concretized by the early 1550s. The connection between Protestant propaganda and the psalms was carried forward with increasing adamancy in the polemic after mid-century. During the flurry of quickly-printed Protestant publications of 1562, a growing number of contrafacta made use of psalms as timbres. For example, a pamphlet entitled Confession de la foy chrestienne, published in Lyon in 1562, states that it was “[…] set into French rhyme, for the great spiritual consolation of all faithful peoples […] And so that it can offer some fruits to the Reader such that he can rejoice in God it has been properly adapted to the tune of Psalm CXIX. Bienheureuse est la personne, &c. Such that we may be edified, simply by reading it, or by singing it spiritually, so that we can better retain it in our memory.”273 Interestingly, the author of the Confession de la Foy did not assume that the reader would have known this psalm tune, as the music is printed in delicate tear-drop notation (see Figure 2.3). As with Bèze’s Psalm 47 discussed above, this tune was already somewhat standardized in printed circulation as of an initial 1551 Genevan edition. As contrafacta like the Confession de la foy chrestienne intimate, psalms were harnessed for their affective power within the Protestant ethos – but how familiar were these “standardized” tunes? Would they have been appropriate as propagandistic timbres, sticky enough to carry new texts? The fact that the Confession de la foy chrestienne prints the music for Psalm 119 rather than citing the psalm as a timbre suggests that the tune may not, in fact, have been well-know. Psalm tunes in the mid-1550s, moreover, were even less likely to have been familiar to the broader populace – a reality that makes the use of psalms as timbres for the martyr songs in the Recueil all the more striking. Had these particular psalm tunes been internalized by a wider audience? Or was this use of psalms as timbres most of all an affective gesture? Even more intriguingly, did contrafacta like the martyr songs from the Recueil actually help to circulate psalm tunes themselves? This conjecture raises the issue of the discrete differences between Protestant communities and their psalm practices. While new tunes (in both monophonic and polyphonic settings) were composed throughout the century, an “orthodox” monophonic psalter was 272 273 Pidoux, Le Psautier Huguenot, 1: 127. Interestingly, the syllabic pattern follows the slight variations given in psalm editions from Paris; hence I have followed these small textual differences here. Confession de la Foy Chrestienne (Lyon, 1562), in the Recueil Factice collection held in the archives of the Faculté Catholique de Lyon, “[...] mise en Rime Françoise, à la grande consolation spirituelle de toutes personne fidele […] Et à celle fin qu’elle puisse apporter quelque fruits davantage au Lecteur pour se resjouir en Dieu: a esté proprement acco[m]modee sur le cha[n]t du Psalme CXIX. Bienheureuse est la personne, &c. De façon que par icelle, on peut estre edifié, la lisant simpleme[n]t, ou la chantant spirituellement, pour la mieux retenir en memoire.” 93 produced in Geneva in 1562. Even then, psalters with tunes particular to large Protestant communities in Lausanne and Strasbourg continued to be printed and used without submission to the “orthodox” Genevan version. Thus, what one sang when a “new song” was set “to the tune of” a French psalm melody was dependent upon community context. Figure 2.3: Confession de la foy chrestienne (1562) Indeed, the five students from Lausanne were spiritually reared in a community that maintained their own psalters and psalm tunes. Attending the Académie de Lausanne with its rigorous training program, these students would have received thorough schooling in the musical skills appropriate to Protestant worship. Students at the Lausanne Académie (or Collège), in fact, were taught music by singers from the Lausanne Cathedral. During the five students’ residency, the main instructor was Guillaume Franc, who was obviously a capable musician committed to 94 Protestant musical practice, as he amended and wrote new melodies for numerous psalms, which were published in the Psautier de Lausanne in 1565.274 According to a law passed in 1547, Franc would have trained these students in Protestant musical practice: every day at six o’clock in the morning, after prayers, they were to sing “praises” (“louanges”); and again, at eleven o’clock in the morning they were required to sing the French psalms for half an hour. In 1579, another music instructor, Antoine Vuillet, had big panels installed to teach the students musical notation – an indication that training in musical literacy might already have been in practice via other media.275 As advanced students, the five martyrs of Lyon would thus have been intimately acquainted with the psalms, at least as they were practiced in Lausanne. While Crespin may have embellished (and ameliorated, in his view) the five students’ prison writings in his Book of Martyrs, it is nonetheless clear that these youth were equipped with a plethora of scriptural references, and firm knowledge of the tenets of Calvinism. They also had unusual access to writing materials while they were incarcerated, allowing them to correspond with Calvin, one another, and their community back home. Given the importance of song in Calvinist devotional practice, and these students’ obvious desire to communicate their plight to the world outside the prison walls, we would be amiss to dismiss the possibility that the five martyrs of Lyon would have been motivated to compose spiritual songs. Music had a special capacity to disseminate emotional content amidst confessional struggles; and contrafacture was a key means of making this information stick and circulate. Moreover, because of their alliance with Protestantism, chansons spirituelles were so often modeled directly on the French psalms; 276 basing songs of suffering upon the psalms would thus have fallen in line with the prevailing norms for fashioning chansons spirituelles. The term “composées” on the title page of Guéroult’s Martyr Songs was therefore most likely meant to be an indication that the poems were written by the five martyrs of Lyon – verses originally composed as contrafacta on the psalms. The poetry in this collection flows well enough, but it is not of the highest caliber, and could easily have been written by amateur students who had been immersed in Protestant verse generally, and the French psalms in particular. Amidst the large portion of the Book of Martyrs dedicated to the five students from Lausanne, it should come as no surprise that Crespin would not have included chansons spirituelles such as these, even if they were unquestionably written by the five martyrs – for, as we have seen, these songs did not exhibit ideal martyr behavior, and would only have served to subvert the orthodox martyrological narrative that Crespin aimed to establish. Clearly, these songs managed to circulate without the help of Crespin’s propagation, as is attested by their appearance both in an elite musical collection, as well as a more popularlyoriented recueil. If the five Lausanne martyrs did compose these chansons spirituelles while imprisoned in Lyon, Guéroult might well have acquired them while travelling for his printing endeavours of 1553, before the texts were even smuggled out of Lyon; such early access may have given him an upper hand on printing these emotional musical texts during the earliest phase of their dissemination. Having a musician like G. de la Moeulle set new monophonic tunes to this poetry would have given these martyrs’ songs the kind of new music caché that a certain 274 The full title is Les Pseaumes mis en rime françoise, par Clément Marot, & Théodore de Bèze, avec le chant de l’Église de Lausanne ([Geneva]: Jean Rivery, 1565). 275 Weeda, Le Psautier de Calvin, 109-110. 276 Ullberg, Au chemin de salvation, 128-44. 95 rank of musically literate elites sought out. The original contrafacta speak even more directly to processes of affective musical transmission. For the martyr songs were composed exclusively “to the tune of” five of Marot’s psalm translations; as noted above, these were psalms that received a great number of musical settings throughout the century. Even by 1553, these five psalms – 143, 37, 118, 137, and 46 – had been set to various melodies in publications in Lyon and Geneva. Compellingly, most of these collections were furnished by Lyonnais printers, particularly the Beringen brothers, who printed two monophonic psalters in 1548 and 1549 that contained all five of these psalms, both titled Pseaulmes cinquante de David, mis en vers francois par Clement Marot. The only other monophonic print prior to 1554 to feature these five psalms was the aforementioned Octantetrois psaumes (Geneva: Jean Crespin, 1551) for which Louis Bourgeois was exiled from Geneva.277 Circumscribing the limited print circulation of this group of five psalms brings to light an intriguing prospect: if the five martyrs of Lyon did compose these martyr songs, perhaps they had access to a Lyonnais psalm edition while in prison. After all, materials seem to have moved in and out of the students’ surprisingly porous cells. Either way, the prominence of these five psalms in Lyonnais collections suggests that some local version of these psalms tunes would indeed have served as a sticky medium for propagating emotional Protestant experiences. Musical ‘Publication’ Given this potentially local appeal, what sort of public were these newly-composed and contrafacta martyr songs prints directed at? Clearly, they exploited the fame that these five students had achieved, not only through their plight, but also through their correspondence with Calvin. These songs also deployed the techniques of another sub-genre: the newsy chanson nouvelle.278 These “news” songs were contrafacta that generally took up the topic of some important or popular event – a battle, an edict, a civic conflict. Appearing in musical chapbooks that shared subject matter with printed news and polemic responding to escalating religious anxieties, such musical ephemera united printing technology with the bodily technologies of orality. By reporting on the most famous persecution of the day, the martyr songs adopted the verbal strategies of the newsy song. Using such a familiar media form would have allowed the martyr songs to course into the rising tide of printed-oral channels of transmission, of inexpensively produced pamphlets and broadsides. In his study of the theater of martyrdom, Nicholls maintains that there were no broadsides or canards (sort of tabloids) that described the martyring process.279 While it may be true that no 277 278 279 A singular polyphonic Lyonnais collection from 1547, also printed by the Beringen brothers was the only other pre-1554 print to have included all five of these psalms: Pseaulmes cinquante, de David Roy et Prophete, Traduictz en vers francois par Clement Marot, & mis en musique par Loys Bourgeoys à 4 p., à voix de contrepoint égal consonante au verbe (Lyon: Godefroy & Marcelin Beringen, 1547). I borrow the term “newsy” chanson nouvelle from Kate van Orden, whose article “Cheap Print and Street Song Following the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres of 1572,” in Music and the Cultures of Print, ed. Kate van Orden, 234-324 (New York: Garland, 2000) opened up preliminary examination of an urban musical practice that carried news, drama, and polemic via the oral-literate form of the chanson nouvelle. See also Chapter Three of this dissertation for a thorough discussion of the importance of chansons nouvelles within affective economies of anger in Lyon and France at large during the Wars of Religion. Nicholls, “The Theatre of Martyrdom,” 69. 96 observational accounts of martyrdom are reported in extant textual ephemera, I would argue that the martyr songs provide a descriptive account of martyrs anticipating their sufferings – thus bringing the reader/singer/listener into the theatre of martyrdom via an emotional first-person report. Nicholls contends that so many Catholics must have flocked to executions because, lacking ephemera that documented martyrdoms, their curiosity could only be satiated through observation. I would argue that the compulsion to attend these executions, in fact, would most likely have been amplified by the oral-literate circulation of collections like the Martyr Songs or the Receuil. Thus, in overlooking musical dissemination, Nicholls’ compelling study of the theatre of martyrdom disregards a key form of affective propaganda. The first-person voice of the martyr songs bridges genre types, as both newsy songs and biblical narratives used this personalizing strategy, evoking almost Passion-like levels of adulation on the part of the performer/or listener.280 It was not uncommon to personalize biblical characters within Protestant musical culture; a particularly evocative dramatization of this practice takes place in the anonymous La musique de David, ou est demonstrée la rejection des Juifs et la reception des Gentils (Lyon: Jean Saugrin, 1566), discussed in Chapter One of this dissertation. This musical theatre includes the characters of Abraham, Moses, David, and Jesus Christ, all singing the psalms in the Genevan translations of Marot.281 While the use of first-person voice was conventional, in the case of the martyr songs, this speaker narrates his visceral dread about becoming the subject of a (Foucauldian) spectacle of corporal punishment.282 For example, the chanson “Puis qu’adversite nous offence” describes the prisoner’s somatic anticipation of his coming torture: Si tost qu’on vient ouvrir la porte Nostre chair craint en telle sorte Qu’elle juge subitement: Que c’est pour aller au tourment. Incontinent, si fort nous tremble Le povre coeur, las qu’il nous semble, Que le bourreau nous vient querir Pour au feu nous faire mourir. O povre chair par trop fragile […] Mourir par feu c’est mort tresdure A toute humaine creature: Mais toutesfois c’est peu de faict [Que] feu qui nostre corps deffait. O combien plus est redoutable 280 281 282 As I will note in more detail Chapter Three, first-person narratives often took on the voice of particularly important political figures, as well as stereotyped characters – all of which could be deployed in a joking sense, a plaintive sense, a celebratory sense, etc. In a moment that points to the period’s lack of concern for historical “accuracy,” after teaching them all to sing in perfect four-part harmony, Jesus explains that he has come down “to accord human discord […] to speak of [his] new law, full of love, justice and mercy” and suggests that they perform a “motet.” Dobbins, “Music in French Theatre,” 100. These visions recall Foucault’s opening description of the performance of torture and execution in Discipline and Punish, 3-6. 97 Le feu d’enfer au miserable, Qui par peché sera vaincu, Et selon Dieu n’aura vescu. As soon as the door opens Our flesh fears in such a way That it judges quickly That we are to go to torture. Out of control, miserable, Our poor hearts tremble, as it seems to us That the executioner is coming to fetch us To take us to die in the fire. O poor flesh by far too fragile […] To die by fire is a very hard death For all human creatures: But nevertheless it’s trivial, The fire that defeats our bodies. O how much more dreadful Is the fire of hell to the sinner Who will be vanquished for their sins And in God’s eyes they will not have lived. And, in “Dedans Lyon,” their sonic torture (closing with a plea to be freed, to continue proselytizing): Beaucoup aussi de parolles lubriques, Nous entendons, & cha[n]sons impudiques A haute voix en prison resonner: Et ce pendant on nous pense estonner Si nous chantons les divines louanges De nostre Dieu, en ces prisons estranges. Voila pourquoy nostre coeur tant aspire A toy, Seigneur, & qu’il crie & souspire En desirant, qu’en liberté remis Tost nous soyons, à fin qu’au large mis Nous annoncions à gens de toutes guises Tes grands bontez parfaictes & exquises. There are also many lewd words That we hear, and immodest songs That resound loudly through the prison: And yet they think us astonishing 98 If we sing the divine praises Of our God, in this foreign prison. This is why our heart longs so much For you Lord, it cries and sighs, Desiring that we will soon be Given liberty, once set free We will announce to people of all kinds Your great, perfect, and exquisite goodness. Or, more imaginings of the execution in “O Seigneur la seule esperance”: Car la mort cruelle & horrible, Ensemble le tourment terrible, Et le bourreau mal gracieux: Avecques terreur incredible Se presentent devant nos yeux. Dont nous estans en telle presse, O Dieu nous crions de destresse, Levans au ciel les yeux vers soy: Que ta bonté ne nous delaisse Au milieu de ce grand émoy. Because death is cruel and horrible, Together with terrible torment, And the executioner ungracious: With incredible terror They are presented in front of our eyes. Thus in such a bind, O God we cry in distress, Raising our eyes to heaven towards you: That your beneficence does not forsake us In the midst of this great commotion. These personalized descriptions of suffering came neither from the voice of a distanced biblical figure, nor from that of an anonymous Christian, but from the five young martyrs that were burned in Lyon – the same city to which colporteurs would have carried these chansons in their baskets of goods from Geneva.283 These chansons thus operated within both a thriving 283 Dobbins argues that Matthieu Dymonet might have owned the Martyr Songs, for he was interrogated by the royal lieutenant and his officials because his books included a “petit livre de chansons spirituelles en musique.” Dobbins, Music in Renaissance Lyons, 266. While this collection would surely have solicited legal persecution, it would not have been possible for Dymonet to have owned the Martyr Songs because he was arrested on 9 January 1553, and imprisoned alongside the martyrs of Lausanne. As Guéraud reported in his diary, this 99 affective economy and a financial economy of trade between the cities of Geneva and Lyon. The Crown obviously found such traffic threatening, and tried to implement a search-and-seizure(and-punish) program in the 1551 Edict of Chateaubriand: And since in our city of Lyon there are several printers, and since usually they bring in large numbers of foreign books, even those which are greatly suspected of heresy, we have decreed that three times a year there will be an inspection of the offices and boutiques of the printers and merchants selling books in the aforementioned city, by two good people, men of the church [...] And if in the process of these inspections they find some noteworthy offense, they will alert us so that we can proceed against those who committed it.284 This program, however, was not enforceable, and so failed to be implemented.285 Instead, it was most consistently the little guys, the colporteurs, who were prosecuted and condemned.286 Song continued to carry such a powerful threat – the potential to subvert power and incite crowds – that the crown began to issue bans on inflammatory singing within the city of Lyon, such as a Royal Ordinance from 1564, which states: “[I]n following the old Decrees [...] is it very expressly forbidden [...] to sing dissolute songs and songs leaning toward sedition or to agitate by insults or otherwise and under the pretext of Religion, upon the pains [of hanging].”287 Within the Martyr Songs collection itself, the “Chanson plaintive de l’eglise a son espoux Jesus Christ par D.D.” decries these bans, which proliferated in cities throughout France: Ilz ont deffendu les chants Dont est ta gloire élevee, Et des lascifs & meschans Ont la coustume approuvee. They have prohibited the songs Wherein your glory is raised And the lascivious and wicked ones They habitually approve. 284 285 286 287 “obstinate” Dymonet was burned at the stake on July 15 1553. Quoted in Guillo, Les Éditions Musicales, 64-65, “Et pour autant qu’en nostre ville de Lyon y a plusieurs imprimeurs, et qu’ordinairement il s’y apporte grand nombre de livre de pays estrangers, mesme de ceux qui sont grandement suspects d’hérésie, nous avons ordonné que trois fois l’an sera faite visitation des officines et boutiques des imprimeurs, marchans et vendans livres dans ladite ville, par deux bons personnages, gens d’église […] Et si en procédant à ces visitations ils trouvent faute notable, ils nous en advertiront pour faire procéder contre eux qui les feront, et y donner telle provision que nous verrons estre à faire.” This impossibility was in part because of Lyon’s distance from the authority of Paris, its proximity to Geneva, and its city council’s overriding economic concerns, which strongly favored the printing trade. Guillo, Les Éditions Musicales, 64-65. Quoted in van Orden, “Cheap Print and Street Song,” 274. 100 The Performance of History Prints such as the Martyr Songs and the Recueil were effective conduits for both message and affect, as they moved within a semi-literate culture where most news was still carried by voices. Their songs demanded musical performances that resonated with the unifying aestheticaffect of the psalms, while communicating the emotional story of the five students’ incarceration; this aesthetic paradigm characterized both the printed tunes in the Guéroult/du Bosc’s publication, which so strongly resembled psalms (both musically and materially), and the Protestant recueil which more directly proffered contrafacta of the psalms. In both their elite and more popular forms, these songs were a means of recording memories for the purpose of edification, much like the stories in Crespin’s Book of Martyrs. Despite his claims, Crespin’s history was not an objective account, but one that aimed to systematically unify the sufferings of the ancient Christian church with those of the contemporary Protestant church. Furthermore, Crespin emphasized a memorializing morality in his conceptualization of historical writing: I hope therefore that this history will serve not only the faithful of the Church, in order to put in front of them the works made so admirable by God, but also the poor, ignorant people in order to force them to remember the merits of the cause of those condemned and slaughtered for the truth of the Gospel, so that they can judge at their leisure whether there had been reason to perpetrate so much cruelty.288 Neither the Book of Martyrs nor the martyr songs voice particularly “objective” tales in modern historiographical terms, but we do not necessarily expect this “objectivity” from songs the same way that we might from the written chronicles of “history.” But such “new songs” were essential means of spreading what was considered history, news, and edification. The martyr songs were thus subversive, in part, because of the ways in which they engaged with popular culture’s form and function. In this largely oral culture, defining histories depended strongly on memory. Catholic polemic accused Protestantism of polluting Christianity with “new” ideas; in order to combat such Catholic attacks, early Protestant propaganda sought to place the plight of reformers into the long history of Christian persecution – but these articulations were more often acted out rather than simply written down. The martyr songs engaged the affective powers of such stories of martyrdom through a medium that stuck to the memory, even while enlisting the techniques of communitas to which Protestants had adapted. Remembering and re-enacting the tribulations of a city’s martyrs through inter-referential songs mobilized local affective experiences towards habitus-shaping ends. Constituted by their musical (re-)embodiment in new Protestant subjects, the martyr songs came to life as sung performances of the theatre of martyrdom. 288 From the preface to the 1570 edition. Quoted in Watson, “The Martyrology of Jean Crespin,” 40. 101 Chapter Three: Street Songs and Musical Economies of Anger Musical Antidotes On April 29, 1562, in obvious distress, the Lyonnais Catholic Jean Guéraud recorded in his journal: “There followed the pitiful desolation of the poor and miserable city of Lyon captured by the Huguenots on Wednesday the 19th of April 1562 one hour after midnight by the treachery of the governor Monseigneur de Sault and several officers of the city.”289 Through an internal coup that was partly made possible by recent restrictions on Catholics carrying arms, the Protestants overthrew the city’s governing structures on April 2829, retaining power until June 18 of 1563.290 Lyon was amongst several cities to be taken over by Protestants that year, coups that would have lasting effects on how Catholics characterized the invasive presence of Huguenots. The threat of such depositions would be broadcast in Catholic polemic for decades to come. At the root of this developing propaganda was an ethos of fearmongering, one that would increasingly provoke anger and violence against Protestant bodies. Leading up to the 1562 Protestant takeover in Lyon, and particularly during the fourteen months that they controlled the city, a barrage of propagandistic Protestant prints shot off the presses.291 Importantly, these polemical prints (like the psalm parades of the early 1550s discussed in Chapter One) were not endorsed by the Protestant elite. Calvin’s goal was for Protestants to be recognized as subjects of France, and, as such, he railed against actions that might be perceived as a threat to sovereign power and peace. As crowds of enthused Protestants sacked Catholic churches and monasteries, Calvin reprimanded their unbridled aggression: We know well that with such emotions, it is quite difficult to moderate one’s self well enough that one does not commit excess, and we easily excuse it if you did not pull in the reigns as tightly as would have been desirable. But there are insupportable actions for which we are compelled to write to you with greater asperity than we would like.292 By 1572 such assimilative political aspirations had shifted irrevocably, when, following the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres, an anti-monarchical Huguenot republican constitution 289 290 291 292 Guéraud in Tricou, La Chronique Lyonnaise, 153, “Sensuit la piteuse desoulation de la pauvre et miserable ville de Lyon surprinse par les huguenots le mercredy 19e jour d’apvril 1562 à un heure apprès minuict par trahison du gouverneur Mr de Sault et aulcuns officiers de la Ville.” For a detailed study of the Protestant presence in Lyon, with a thorough examination of the lead-up to, and year of Protestant rule, see Yves Krumenacker, ed., Lyon 1562, capitale protestante: une histoire religieuse de Lyon à la Renaissance (Lyon: Olivetan, 2009). Andrew Pettegree has argued that over one-third of all Protestant works published in the sixteenth century in French emerged between 1560-1565. Pettegree, Reformation and the Culture of Persuasion, 176. Calvin quoted in Jules Bonet, ed., Lettres de Jean Calvin, 2 vols. (Paris: Librairie de Meyrueis et Compagnie, 1854), 2: 466, “Nous sçavons bien qu’en telles esmotions, il est bien difficile de se modérer si bien qu’il ne s’y commette de l’excès, et excusons facilement si vous n’avez tenu la bride si roide qu’il eust esté à souhaiter. Mais il y a des choses insupportables dont nous sommes contraints de vous escrire plus asprement que nous ne voudrions.” Translation mine. 102 was established, aiming to create a separate state with the young Condé at its head.293 But in 1562 Calvin still hoped to achieve full, integrated recognition of the faith from the Crown; Calvin thus admonished the Lyonnais reformed public to rein in their passion, to calm their emotions. The Catholic elite responded very differently – both to printed and physical forms of expression. Printed reactions were perhaps a long time coming, though, for the Catholic hierarchy had adamantly resisted publishing in the vernacular for lay readers on religious issues. Even the Italian Dominican Ambrosius Catharinus’ 1520 attack on Luther (translated into French for publication in 1548) was meant for fellow members of the ecclesiastical estate; Catharinus actually took the position that the printing press had thrust dangerous questions of theology and divine scripture into the lives of the simple-minded masses, who should really just accept the judgement of those above them.294 But with the outbreak of violence in 1562, Catholic bishops, canons, deacons, mendicants, and Jesuits began to actively participate in the production of printed vernacular polemic.295 In Lyon, for instance, Michel Jove published the priest Artus Désiré’s Contrepoison des cinquante chansons de Clement Marot, Faussement intitulées par luy PSALMES DE DAVID, Fait & composé de plusieurs bonnes doctrines, & sentences preservatives d’Heresie. The print opens with a “certification” from the Faculty of Theology, confirming that the doctors of the University of Paris found the contents of this volume “useful and necessary to bring to light.”296 Like much of his vitriolic anti-Protestant polemic, Désiré’s “Antidote” called for the crown to exterminate these “Lutheran” and “atheist” heretics. He railed against their vile and secretive ways; most of all, he focused anger against Calvin’s seductive 293 294 295 296 The constitution, published in 1574 as Le Reveille-matin des Français et de leurs voisins (Edinburgh [=Geneva]: Jacques James, 1574), declared that the Huguenots were tired of “waiting until it pleased God (who has the hearts of kings in his hand) to replace the one who is their king and restore the state of the nation in good order, or to inspire a neighboring prince, who is distinguished by his virtue, to be the liberator of these poor, afflicted people.” Quoted in Mack P. Holt, The French Wars of Religion, 1562-1629 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 98. Each community would elect an elder, each of whom would appoint twenty-four councillors; this Council of twenty-four would rule on issues of war and criminal law. Another seventy-five would also be selected, and all of these members would rule together on issues of taxation and treaties. The republic thus aimed at both establishing the safety of the community through military means, and ensuring a Protestant civilian order. Ibid., 98-100. Brandon Hartley, “War and Tolerance: Catholic Polemic in Lyon During the French Religious Wars,” (PhD diss., University of Arizona, 2007), 83. Catholic authorities in Lyon had noted the Protestant explosion of printed pamphlets as a problematic disadvantage before the overthrow. The canon-counts of Saint Jean even complained to the city council in 1560: “The malicious desire of the heretics to deceive the faithful is nowhere more evident than in the production of books full of heresy, for by them they preach and dogmatize even in places from which they are absent or which are forbidden to them, and imprint in the memory thoughts which time or sound teaching would make them forget, and in a more eloquent, attractive and memorable style than the spoken word.” Quoted in Ibid., 22. The emphasis here on the powers of printed works to eloquently imprint on the mind better than the spoken word is particularly interesting, given the resurgent Catholic emphasis on preaching. Artus Désiré, Contrepoison des cinquante chansons de Clement Marot, Faussement intitulées par luy PSALMES DE DAVID, Fait & composé de plusieurs bonnes doctrines, & sentences preservatives d’Heresie […] Plus adjousté de nouveau certains lieux & passages des euvres dudit Marot, par lesquelz l’on connoistra l’Heresie & erreur d’iceluy. (Lyon: Michel Jove, 1562), A2v, “Ce prese[n]t Livre ha esté veu, visité & approuvé par venerables Docteurs de la Faculté de Theologie de l’Université de Paris, auquel n’ont trouvé chose qui puisse empescher l’impression d’iceluy: ains l’ont trouvé tres utile, & necessaire estre mis en lumiere.” All translations of Désiré’s Contrepoison are my own. 103 ability to twist the minds of the “poor masses,” and the folly of his “so-called” Reformed church. In his “Chanson III. Intitulée par le dit Marot. Cum invocarem exaudivit me,” (in fact, Psalm 4, titled “Quand je t’invoque, eslas escoute” by Marot), Désiré invokes the coming fiery destruction of Calvin’s schismatic heretics: Tremblez donq tous de ceste chose Sans plus son Eglise offenser, Pensez en vous ce qu’il dispose Et en moy aussi qui propose Vous faire par le feu passer. […] Plusieurs demandent qui sera ce Qui fera brusler Jan Calvin Aveq sa malheureuse race? Et ce sera Dieu par sa grace Qui mettra à ses erreurs fin. Tremble thus everyone over this matter Without further offending his Church, Reflect on what he commands As well as on what I propose [: to] Make you pass through the fire. […] Many [people] ask who it will be That will burn Jean Calvin Along with his wretched race? And it will be God by His grace That will put an end to his errors. This is not atypical rhetoric for this period. Yet what is unusual about this polemic is that it is set to printed music. For this music, this “antidote,” is, in fact, a contrafactum. Désiré’s entire Contrepoison contains exacting contrafacta of the melodies that were printed most frequently to Clement Marot’s French translations of the psalms (many of which would be replicated in the “official” psalter of 1562). His “Chanson IIII” (see Figure 3.1) employed the same tune that was printed in French Protestant psalters in Genevan editions in 1542, Lyonnais editions in 1547-49, and all subsequent Genevan editions from 1554.297 What Désiré understood 297 Including the editions: La forme des prières et chant ecclésiastiques (Genève, 1542); Pseaulmes cinquante, de David .. mis en musique par Loys Bourgeoys à 4 p., à voix de contrepoint égal consonante au verbe (Lyon, 1547); Pseaumes cinquante de David, mis en vers françois par Cl. Marot (Lyon, 1548 and 1549); Octante trois pseaumes, … 49 par Cl. Marot et 34 par Th. De Bèze (Genève, 1551 and 1554, Plus 6 ps. Nouvellement traduits par Th. De Bèze); Pseaumes de David … (83+7), à la suite de La Bible (Genève, 1556); (Les 150) Pseaumes de David (Genève, 1562). There are small variations between these tune versions, which might seem to indicate that 104 and what this musical “conversion” sought to combat was the power of Marot’s psalms within the Protestant camp that I explored in Chapter Two. And the fact that Désiré printed all of the tunes highlights the reality that it was not just Marot’s poetry, but, in fact, melodies to which they were bound that bore the force of propaganda. Figure 3.1: Chanson IIII, Désiré, Contrepoison (1562) Already in the 1530s, the Dominican Pierre Doré, a preacher in Paris, had called for “antidotes” in French to the “Lutheran poison” coming off of the presses, though this call was only heeded in Lyon as the wars erupted.298 By around mid-century, calls to purge Protestant “venom” had become commonplace within both sermons and polemical Catholic treatises. In 298 Désiré was specifically consulting Loys Bourgeois’ polyphonic editions (Lyon: Godefroy & Marcellin Beringen, 1547). These differences include pitch repetitions in phrases 7 and 8; however, Désiré follows the Genevan tune (Geneva 1551 onwards) at the beginning of phrase 9 (starting with a C, rather than a B, as in the Bourgeoys 1547 edition, and other Lyonnais editions). For these tunes and variations thereof, see Pidoux, Le psautier huguenot, 1: 7-8. Hartley, “War and Tolerance,” 81. 105 one such sermon that addressed heresy in the 1540s, for example, LePicart argued that heretics “deceive others […] to spread their venom under the cloak of truth,” and that one should not speak with or listen to them, “for the venom of their doctrine will bring corporal and spiritual death.”299 The hunt for anti-venom must have been part of the reason why the Contrepoison was so popular during the period leading up to and encompassing the first war. This tract was printed initially in Paris and Rouen in 1560 and appeared in five more editions in Paris and Avignon, mostly printed from 1560-1562.300 What interests me here is its issuing in Lyon, during the Protestant reign of this city, by Michel Jove, the Jesuit’s official printer (whose proselytizing faction would soon win over the city).301 Although Rouen had also endured a Protestant coup, the Contrepoison was printed there in 1560, while both Avignon and Paris remained more virulently Catholic during the period that the Contrepoison’s was published in those cities. As we will see, Lyon would become increasingly radical as it aggressively turned back towards Catholicism, and the Jesuits began to assume dominant propagatory roles. Back in 1562, the very “secularist” emphases of the city – its council’s refusal to take a stand against Protestantism, for fear that it would interfere with trade – had allowed for a substantial expansion of the Huguenot presence. Désiré’s Contrepoison was printed at a moment that would be polemically recounted throughout the Wars of Religion, during the year that (in the words of canon-count Gabriel de Saconay) the “tyrannical Huguenots sought to destroy all things divine and human in the city of Lyon.”302 Chansons Nouvelles By printing this music, Désiré was laboriously and expensively appropriating and desacralizing these tunes from the inside. He could simply have instructed the reader to sing his poetry to “Quand j’invoque, helas, escoute,” but that would have validated the tune as a psalm translation. Instead, Désiré prints every tune in delicate tear-drop notation. By reprinting the music, Désiré removed these psalm tunes from ritual and devotional practice, and repositioned them in the secular realm of public polemic. Rather than resacralizing this music, which was typically what a religious author did, this edition secularized it. Authors of contrafacta collections in the sixteenth century repeatedly affirmed the 299 300 301 302 LePicart in Larissa Taylor, Soldiers of Christ: Preaching in late medieval and reformation France (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 220-21. Rouen: Jean Orival, 1560; Paris: Pierre Gaultier, 1560; Paris: Pierre Gaultier, 1561; Avignon: Louis Barrier, 1561; Lyon: Michel Jove, 1562; Avignon: Pierre Roux, 1562; Paris: Pierre Gaultier, 1562; Paris: Jean Ruelle, 1567. Notably, in his facsimile edition of the Contrepoison Jacques Pineaux seems not to have noticed the Lyon edition. Jacques Pineaux, Le contrepoison des cinquante-deux chansons de Clement Marot (Geneva: Droz, 1977). Gabriel de Saconay, Discours des premiers troubles avenus à Lyon, avec l’apologie pour la ville de Lyon, contre le libelle faucement intitulé, La juste & saincte defence de la ville de Lyon. Par M. Gabriel de Saconay, Praecenteur & Conte de l’eglise de Lyon (Lyon: Michel Jove, 1569), A3, “[L]a rage des seditieux ose entreprendre de renverser toutes choses divines & humaines, & la sincere fidelité soit privee de defence.” As suggested by its title, the discourse was specifically responding to the Protestant print La Juste et Saincte Defense de la Ville de Lyon (Lyon, 1563). 106 importance of reclaiming tunes that had proven popular. Like the apocryphal quip from Luther that “the devil shouldn’t have all the good tunes,” authors went about re-appropriating dirty and impious songs, requisitioning them for the purposes of the appropriate (Catholic or Protestant) confessional fold. Such resettings abounded in the sixteenth century; this indeed was the age of the contrafactum. The process of resetting popular tunes, however, has received short shrift in musicology, precisely because it involved recycling tunes, which most of the time were simple, monophonic, and repetitive.303 In both the large collected recueils and shorter pamphlets, moreover, most of the poetry and music was anonymous. Part of the reason that this repertoire has received minimal musicological attention is because the process of contrafacture is generally understood to break down the relationship between text and music, thus denying to scholars a key analytic approach to the history of music in the Renaissance. As I will explore, evidence of important word-music connections are still present in contrafacta; even so, they hardly contribute to a history which posits an expressive teleology of word-music relations that led to the innovations of monody around the turn of the seventeenth century. Particularly within the sphere of polemic, contrafacta were plentiful – but generally they were inexpensively and quickly produced in the form of chansons nouvelles. In this genre, rather than including printed music, the printer simply indicated that the “new song” was to be “sung to the tune of” an existing popular tune. Chansons nouvelles were printed on single sheets, as pamphlets, as placards, and as small, unbound books, which often appeared in tiny sextodecimo format on cheap commung paper. Compared to printed music, they were an accessible medium, both in terms of price and in terms of the kind of literacy that they demanded.304 What particularly interests me about these songs is their affective capacity. As both writer and reader/performer approached the “new song,” its sonic basis demanded that the old song be recollected. Because of this, these songs had the potential to become intertextually affective – layering the associations, meanings, and performances of the old onto the new. These song intertexts also had an accentuated aptitude for circulating ideas and emotions precisely because of their orality. That is, once one person had read a chanson nouvelle, it could potentially be distributed in song-form amongst those large portions of the population that were illiterate or marginally literate. As pedagogues on both sides of the battle for the hearts and minds of Christian children reiterated repeatedly, music stuck to the memory better than text alone.305 303 304 305 Important exceptions within musicological study include Richard Freedman’s The Chansons of Orlando di Lasso and their Protestant listeners: music, piety, and print in sixteenth-century France (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2000); sections of Alexander Fisher’s Music and religious identity in counter-reformation Augsburg, 1580-1630 (Burlington: Ashgate, 2004); Rebecca Wagner Oettinger’s Music as propaganda in the German Reformation (Burlington: Ashgate, 2001); and van Orden’s “Cheap Print and Street Song.” Notably, Freedman’s monograph addresses contrafacta of polyphonic collections by arguably the most famous composer in the sixteenth century; the audience for these collections would have been a very particular Protestant elite. My work builds more so on the approaches of Fisher and Oettinger, and, as I will explain, especially on that of van Orden, whose work opened up inquiry into the socio-political complexities of quickly printed contrafacta collections. For a discussion of the material makeup of most recueils de chansons, see Kate van Orden, “Vernacular Culture and the Chanson in Paris, 1570-80,” (PhD. diss., University of Chicago, 1996), 240-241. The Jesuit pedagogue Michel Coyssard, for instance, states in his Traicté du profit que toute Personne tire de chanter en la Doctrine Chrestienne & ailleurs, Les Hymnes, & Chansons spirituelles en vulgaure: & du Mal qu’apportent les Lascives, & Heretiques (Lyon: Jean Pillehotte, 1608): “La vive voix a je ne sçay quelle energie cachee, & se faict plus fort entendre, infuse qu’elle est de la bouche du Maistre, es oreilles de son Disciple, certes la Musique y penetrera encore mieux,” 9. The Traicté is also discussed in Kate van Orden, “Children’s Voices: 107 As explored in Chapter Two, despite the burgeoning print culture at the outset of the Wars of Religion, France was still very much a culture of orality, where news and views were largely spread by word of mouth. Within this context, the chanson nouvelle repertoire occupied a unique position that bridged print and oral cultures. The process of creating and enacting chansons nouvelles shifted back and forth between sound, memory, and visuality – their very form afforded diverse sensorial experiences that were reinforced by overlapping media. This chapter moves outwards from one chanson nouvelle that was printed in the wake of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre. I will follow its transformation and intertextual mutation across an increasingly difficult period of the Wars of Religion, stopping along the way to explore related songs and practices in this cultural milieu. In order to consider the processes by which these songs intersected with broader social practices, I will also examine how the affective impulses of such polemical chansons nouvelles related to contemporary configurations of anger. Querying how we position the work of oral culture, this chapter will explore musical economies of anger within the inflamed context of the Wars of Religion, focusing on Catholic street songs that spread with increasing fervor from the 1570s to the 1590s. I will draw attention to the significant role that these songs played in shaping the affective economies of late sixteenth century Lyon, and to some degree, France more broadly. In its movement across print objects, and onto singing and listening subjects, affect could acquire surplus value; in this sense, polemical “new songs” gathered affective intensity as they spread through an increasingly enraged populace.306 “Tongue like a sharpened razor” (Psalm 52) Once the Catholics re-took the city in 1563, a rapprochement began to take place in Lyon between the Catholic hierarchy and a city governance that had traditionally been proudly independent – a shift that was accomplished thanks to amplifying fears of Protestantism. The commands of the 1563 peace treaty to maintain an equal split between Catholics and Protestants in government were gradually pushed aside, and conservative and radical Catholics began to dominate the city council. Control of the College de la Trinité, as well, which had been municipally run since 1527, and had been a bastion of humanistic pedagogy (as I explored in Chapter One) was handed over to the Jesuits between 1565 and 1567. Thus instituted pedagogically, Jesuits also became some of the most ardent preachers calling for the eradication of Protestants in Lyon. The influential Émond Auger, who would later become the first official Jesuit confessor to King Henri III, arrived in Lyon at the end of the period of Protestant rule. Coming from his post as rector of the Collège de Tournon, his career had developed in a virulent fight against the Protestantism that was growing in the region. According to Hauser, his preaching in Bordeaux preceding the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres there on October 3 had roused the crowds to violence. Purportedly, he had bellowed: “Who carried out the judgement of God in Paris? The Angel of God. Who carried it out in Orléans? The Angel of God. Who carried it out in several other cities in the kingdom? The Angel of God. Who will carry it 306 Singing and Literacy in Sixteenth-Century France,” Early Music History 25 (2006): 209-256. See the Introduction of this dissertation for an elaboration of my use of affective economies. 108 out in the city of Bordeaux? It will be the Angel of God.”307 Larissa Taylor has argued that preaching was probably the most effective means of disseminating confessional polemic to a wide audience.308 And although some sermons were printed, these were few and far between, and they were likely received by a small, elite public; most of all, they were used by preachers.309 The appeal of preaching inhered in the live figure of the preacher himself and the energy of his charismatic performance; the surviving records of their texts surely pale in comparison to their original performances. When preparing sermons, the most popular preachers during the Wars of Religion relied on widely familiar biblical tropes and stories in order to tap directly into collective Catholic affect. In this mode, Auger’s popular preaching in Lyon, a city shifting out of Protestant occupation and into radical Catholicism, clearly deployed common invectives about “heretics” and “pollution.” While the politique Pierre de l’Estoile would lambast Auger’s performances as buffoonery, he was widely admired for his entrancing presence.310 Unlike the situation in Paris, the most sought-after preachers in Lyon were not parish priests, but Jesuits like Auger, as well as members of the mendicant orders. Already in 1561, the Lyonnais Catholic Guéraud described his enthusiasm for the minim Jehan Ropitel, who had been sent to the city by the Cardinal de Tournon to preach at the Cathedral of Saint Jean. Ropitel was a man “scavantissime [very knowledgeable] with a grandissime [very great] eloquence, manner and way of speaking, and also as great an enemy to the Huguenots as Saint Augustine and Saint Jerome were to ancient [heretics].”311 Guéraud – and no doubt more radical figures in Lyon – hoped that Ropitel would continue to foment anti-Huguenot sentiment in the city through his dynamic preaching. When Catholic power was reestablished in Lyon 1563, Émond Auger delivered a sermon after the first Catholic Mass since the Protestant seizure. Claude de Rubys claimed that the Mass was so well attended that the Cathedral of Saint Jean was at pains to accommodate everyone. In Ruby’s enthusiastic portrayal, Auger “preached with such zeal, that he made everyone in attendance cry from joy.”312 In fact, no doubt following the example of Quintilian, Émond Auger 307 308 309 310 311 312 Simon Goulart claiming to quote Auger in his Memoires de l’Estat de France sous Charles IX, first published in 1577-78. Quoted in Henri Hauser, “Le Père Émond Auger et le Massacre de Bordeaux,” Bulletin du Société de l’histoire du protestantisme français (1903): 291-306 at 291, “Qui a excécuté le jugement de Dieu à Paris? L’Ange de Dieu. Qui l’a exécuté à Orléans? L’Ange de Dieu. Qui l’a éxécuté en plusieurs autres villes du royaume? L’Ange de Dieu. Qui l’exécutera en la ville de Bourdeaux? Ca sera l’Ange de Dieu.” Translation mine See the chapter on “The Catholic Response to Early Protestant Heresy” in Larissa Taylor, Heresy and Orthodoxy in sixteenth-century Paris: François le Picart and the beginnings of the French Reformation (Boston: Brill, 1999). This is the case that Arnold Hunt makes for preaching in early modern England. See “From Pulpit to Print” in The Art of Hearing: English Preachers and their Audiences, 1590-1640 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). “Auger [as an …] exponent of the new Jesuit technique of winning souls […] struck the prosaic and half Huguenot L’Estoile as the antics of a mountebank and a buffoon.” Francis Yates, The French Academies of the sixteenth century, 2nd ed. (London and New York: Routledge, 1988), 166. Guéraud in Tricou, La Chronique Lyonnaise, 147, “scavantissime avec une grandissime éloquence, manière et façon de parler, et aussy grand ennemy contre les huguenots que St Augustin et St Hierosme estoient contre les anciens.” Guéraud occasionally uses Italian phrases like “scanvantissime” and “grandissime” throughout his diary, a gesture that positions him within a particular elite, one which adopted Italianate phrases and aesthetics. The reference to Saint Jerome in particular is a constant throughout polemic from the 1560s to the 1590s. Rubys, Histoire Veritable, 400, “prescha avec tant de zele, qu’il fit pleurer de joye tous les assistants.” 109 was reputed to have organized his sermons (and trained other Jesuits to give sermons) in musical tones, with each new level of religious fervor raising in pitch. By the end of the sermon, with the preacher’s voice at its most feverish, the congregation would be encouraged to weep and supplicate for Christ’s love – much like they did in Ruby’s celebratory (and biased) account.313 Such affective rhetoric was part and parcel of the Jesuit use of theatrics for edification and instruction. While this particular performative element was only present in the spoken sermon, the same anti-Huguenot positions were being disseminated through various media – often, in fact, by the same preachers. During the period that Catholic clergy turned in earnest to the pulpit in order to combat heresy, they also began to embrace printed polemic. As Luc Racaut contends, there was a language of symbols – “iconic representations drawing on popular imagery, familiar stories, and fears” – that Catholic polemicists used across media forms to create a sense of the Huguenots as monsters.314 The most famous preachers – Benoist, Vigor, Auger – were not original in their choices of topic. Taking Protestant and Catholic criticism about the complex “modern” sermon form to heart, by mid-century these preachers began to convey didactic, repetitive moral messages.315 From LePicart in the 1540s-50s, to the Leaguer sermons of the 1580s, the most reputable preachers increasingly aimed at simplicity and reiteration, returning again and again to the same subjects of the real presence of the Eucharist, the social body of Christ, and the wrath of God. As Barbara Diefendorf has argued for the preachers of Paris, the people were “being taught […] to hate passionately the heretics that disturbed the peace of the kingdom.”316 The same mechanisms of stereotyping were exploited in the pamphlets of the Wars of Religion, for, as with preaching, these prints aimed to instruct the Catholic flock. Like the most effective sermons, polemical ephemera drew on a common stock of references in order to drive home the sense that Huguenots were a real threat to the Christian community of France.317 The decision to finally translate this vitriolic discourse into vernacular print was taken with a sense of pedagogical urgency, as the Catholic hierarchy began to realize that the fight against the Huguenots would be best served by Catholics who were at least somewhat instructed in doctrine. This concern resulted in a preoccupation with the “masses,” a belief that the clergy must provide publications in the vernacular in order to reach “simple folk” who were most at risk of conversion. Our author of the Contrepoison, Artus Désiré, stated bluntly: “Heresy needs to be destroyed in France by French books.”318 And in 1589, Auger argued in the preface to his Imitation of Christ that the best way to fight against heretical books was to mix their poison with anti-venom “in the same goblet.”319 313 314 315 316 317 318 319 Yates briefly explores the affective musicality of Auger’s preaching in The French Academies, 166-67. Racaut, Hatred in Print, 40. As Larissa Taylor argues, however, even though the “modern” sermon was structurally complex, “if one ‘listens’ to the preacher rather than simply reading his words, the structural complexity becomes less evident. At the same time, repetitive divisions serve to imprint the material on the listener’s mind.” Taylor, Soldiers of Christ, 62. Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross, 158. Diefendorf explains that “the corporeal metaphor was not a new weapon in the French battle against the Protestant heresy […] What was new in the period between 1557 and 1572 is the frequency with which the metaphor occurs; it became one of the commonplaces of religious polemic. Equally important, it became particularly insidious in this period of increasing religious tension because it could be extended to justify annihilation of the Huguenots in the name of the common good.” Ibid., 150. Désiré in Racaut, Hatred in Print, 18. Auger in Yates, The French Academies, 166. For Jesuits, this was a global approach to reaching “the people” – a 110 The circulation of rhetorical gestures across sermons and print speaks to a broader tendency in the sixteenth century for expressive movement between print and oral culture. As Luc Racaut argues, pamphlets in early modern France not only affected their audience, they also reflected their audience. It was a two-way process, whereby “the success of pamphlets depended on how well they addressed the concerns of their audience.”320 Throughout the Wars of Religion, inexpensive, quickly-produced pamphlets erupted into the public in the highest doses during the periods of greatest conflict. This pattern was a product of increasingly antagonistic financial, material, and affective economies, for burgeoning conflict in a region meant a strain on the city’s resources, as well as intensifying levels of fear (alongside fear-mongering). Larger volumes were a labor of love for printers, for they rarely turned a profit from such prints, and often even risked bankruptcy; smaller prints, like pamphlets and placards made more economic sense.321 During times of escalating hostilities, these cheaper prints became ever more of a mainstay for Lyonnais printers. The lack of commercial compulsions to circulate such ephemera widely, combined with the deterioration of Lyon’s fairs as the wars progressed, meant that these short prints tended to focus on local issues, events, and concerns.322 The movement from orality to print is apparent in the editions written by preachers – but I am in agreement with Luc Racaut that this movement seems to have been a wider phenomenon, that “the ideas found in print probably owed as much to the welling-up of oral discourse into the literate world as the reverse.”323 We cannot necessarily prove how successfully printed polemic influenced its intended audience in their thoughts and actions, but we might ask: “to what extent did the perceptions and portrayals of Protestants found in printed polemic reflect the concerns and fears of the intended readership?”324 I would extend this question further, to address the means by which polemic was presented: to what degree were the oral practices of the audience reflected in printed polemic? Here I am referring to the musical focus of this chapter: the polemic chansons nouvelles that circulated via this network of printed propaganda. Following Norman Davies’ fifth rule of propaganda, these songs were “orchestrated” relentlessly, “endlessly repeating the same messages in different variations and combinations.”325 As Kate van Orden explains (drawing on Roger Chartier) for the recueils of chansons printed by the Bonfons dynasty in Paris, these collections “organized a manner of reading that was more recognition than true discovery.”326 320 321 322 323 324 325 326 method which involved preaching, worshiping, catechizing, devotional singing, etc. in the vernacular in all of their missionizing. Racaut, Hatred in Print, 47. As Peter Stallybrass argues, “printers were businessmen, pursuing profit, and profit was rarely to be made by publishing huge folios that required major capital investments.” The most profitable printing jobs in the early stages of print were actually quickly produced indulgences and edicts – “little jobs” that produced guaranteed income. Peter Stallybrass, “‘Little Jobs’: Broadsides and the Printing Revolution,” in Agents of Change: Print Culture Studies After Elisabeth L. Eisenstein, eds. Sabrina Alcorn Baron, Eric N. Lindquist and Eleanor F. Shevlin (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2007), 320. For analyses of economic decline in Lyon in the 1570-80s, see Richard Gascon, Grand commerce et vie urbaine au XVIe siècle: Lyon et ses marchands, 2 vols. (Paris: Mouton, 1971), 2: 535; and Maurice Pallasse, La Sénéchaussée et siège présidial de Lyon pendant les Guerres de Religion: essai sur l’évolution de l’administration royale en province au XVIe siècle (Lyon: Imprimerie Emmanuel Vite, 1942), 328-55. Racaut, Hatred in Print, 41. Ibid., 47. Norman Davies, Europe: A History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 500. Kate van Orden, drawing on Chartier in The Order of Books, in “Cheap Print and Street Song,” 297. 111 With the polemical religious contrafacta that began to erupt in the 1550s in France, this recognition was also one that tapped into the common affective modalities employed by popular preachers. These repetitive rhetorical gestures and symbols were themselves already commonplaces – hence their effectiveness. Contrafacta combined layers of familiarity, emotion, and shared, public affect in the digestible anti-venom format of “new songs.” The most virulent collection of anti-Huguenot contrafacta was Christophe de Bordeaux’s Beau Recueil de plusieurs belles Chansons spirituelles, avec ceux des huguenots heretiques & ennemis de Dieu, & de nostre mere saincte Eglise: faictes & composees par maistre Chistofle de Bourdeaux printed in either 1569 or 1570 in Paris, for Magdeleine Berthelin. Almost the entire volume is made up of polemical songs that rail against Protestants, directing Catholics both towards proper devotion, and towards eradicating heretics. The “Chanson contre les Huguenaux, sur les article de foy. Sur Robin” effectively illustrates several of the direct resemblances between preaching and contrafacta polemic.327 The song instructs the listener/reader in a proper, if simplified, Catholic doctrine by pointing out all of the errors of the Protestants, addressing Holy water, Purgatory, eating meat on Fridays, the Marian cult, and prayers for the dead: De l’eau beniste aussi N’en ont pas grand soucy, De cela ne leur chault Aux meschans huguenaux […] Ils nient Purgatoire, Car ils n’y ont que faire, Enfer leur est plus chauld Pour ces faulx huguenaulx […] Le gigot de mouton Cela ils treuvent bon Le vendredy auté Cest meschans huguenaulx […] De l’Ave Maria La vierge on salua En sacre & tout hault Malgré les huguenaulx. En l’Eglise de Dieu Images auront lieu Sur les autelz bien hault Malgré les huguenaulx. Et si par bonne guise Nous aurons en l’Eglise Ornemens riches & beaux Malgré les huguenaulx. 327 The timbre for this song, “Robin,” is probably “Robin a bon credit,” which has a recurring refrain at the end of each short quatrain stanza, “Ma mere je veux Robin,” which is replicated in the “Chansons contre les Huguenots” with a changing refrain “Pensez y huguenaux/Malgré les huguenaux, etc.” “Robin a bon credit” was set to four-part polyphony by Herissant in a Le Roy and Ballard edition from 1556. 112 La Messe on chantera Qui nou preservera Des souffres infernaux Malgré les huguenaulx. Of holy water as well They are not concerned, This does not matter To the evil Huguenots […] They deny Purgatory, For they have no use for it, Hell is hotter for Those false Huguenots […] A leg of lamb That they find good In great quantities on Friday Those evil Huguenots […] On the Ave Maria The Virgin we will commend Sacred and elevated In spite of the Huguenots. In God’s Church There will be images High upon the altars In spite of the Huguenots. And by his good grace We will have in the Church Rich and beautiful ornaments In spite of the Huguenots. We will sing the Mass Which will protect us From infernal sufferings In spite of the Huguenots. The song ends with the declaration that, if they do not attend Mass, these evil Huguenots will be “burned like pigs,” and that order will only be attained by “hanging them all.” This print also speaks to forms of circulation as well as the very anonymous nature of recueils. For Bordeaux’s collection was reprinted almost verbatim by the Lyonnais printer Benoist Rigaud in 1571.328 Unlike volumes dedicated to individual poets or composers, these 328 Le Recueil de Plusieurs Chansons Nouvelles, Avec Plusieurs autres Chansons de guerres, & d’amours, plaisantes & recreatives, qui n’ont jamais esté imprimees jusques à present: nouvellement composees par divers Autheurs. ([Rigaud]: Lyon, 1571). 113 recueils rarely featured poetic or musical attributions; and, without privileges, other printers could pirate these collections without repercussion.329 These “new songs” were thus recycled across and between recueils, placards, and short pamphlets. Moreover, successful reprints of “new songs” from these collections would have been sensitive to the climate of the time – measured to what was already being expressed in the oral discourse of the community in which they were printed. This responsiveness is perhaps most pronounced with pamphlet contrafacta, rather than the recueil publications. In the most standard octavo-size, re-using existing and sometimes broken-down type, pamphlet contrafacta could be rolled off of the presses quickly and inexpensively. “Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz” One such pamphlet was printed in Lyon in 1572, the Chanson Nouvelle a l’encontre des Huguenotz. Avec une chanson nouvelle, des triomphes & magnificences qui on esté faictes à Paris au Mariage du Roy de Navarre, & de tres-illustre Princesse Madame Marguerite, soeur du Roy Charles à present regnant. A Lyon, 1572. It is a short, eight-folio, in-octavo pamphlet printed on commung paper. Although he is not identified on the pamphlet, it was very likely issued by the most prolific printer of contrafacta in Lyon, Benoist Rigaud. The title page features a woodcut of an instructive-looking gathering of young and old, circled around a plump patriarch, who points to musical notation as he joins in song with a child, another man, and a woman (see Figure 3.2).330 As with many inexpensive pamphlets, this woodcut was likely recycled from another printer – but its depiction of a joyous communal gathering is nonetheless notable. As the title indicates, there are two songs in this print: one rallying “against” the Huguenots, and another about the (soon to be ill-fated) marriage of Henry de Navarre and Marguerite de Valois. The juxtaposition of these two songs seems an almost sardonic commentary on the part of the author/or printer. The song concerning Henry and Marguerite’s wedding follows the stereotyped celebratory verse used to commemorate royal events.331 Praising Jesus for this “holy alliance,” much like a poem on a royal entry, the song details the sumptuousness of the marriage procession, and the important figures who were in attendance: 329 330 331 As Kate van Orden summarizes, “the anonymity of the material allowed for its free circulation among prints, a poetic commerce transacted […] without the protection of royal privilege.” “Vernacular Song,” 245. It seems possible that this woodcut was meant to represent polyphonic singing, as the members of the group include the superius (little boy to the left of frame), altus (woman above him), bassus (the plump man), and tenor (the younger man to the right) voices of a typical 4-part piece; this texture is also haphazardly depicted in the music printed in the image. Rigaud actually issued a polyphonic chanson collection, where all voices were printed in the same book – and, notably, it is of chansons spirituelles: Le Premier Livre de Chansons Spirituelles, Mises en Musique par divers Autheurs & excellens Musiciens, nommez en leur endroit. Le tout à quatre parties en un volume, quel est à la fin du present Livre. Reveu & augmenté de nouveau (Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, 1568). This print gleans an adapted edition (Lyon: Thomas de Straton, 1561) of Guéroult’s and Lupi’s successful Premier Livre de Chansons Spirituelles, referred to in Chapter Two of this dissertation. Straton’s modified edition published fifteen of the chansons from the 1548 Beringen edition, along with ten new songs. Guillo, Les Éditions Musicales, 292. Commemorative prints for royal entries and events are addressed in detail in Chapter Four of this dissertation. 114 C’estois une plaisance De voir les rangs dressez, Marchans par ordonnance Selon leur qualitez: Les Eschevins de ville Pour le commencement En bel ordre Marchoyent premierement. Pas à pas bien reiglez Suyvoyent les Presidens, Avec les Conseilliers Juges & Liutenans: Puis cheminoyent les Suisses, Et tabourins sonnans, Accompagnez des fiffres Et plusieurs instrumens. […] Puis le Roy de Navarre Marchoit en bel arroy, Coste à coste de luy Les deux freres du Roy: C’estoit une noblesse De voir leurs vestemens, Garnis d’une richesse Fort magnifiquement. It was a pleasure To see the ranks assembled, Marching in order Based on their standing: The city’s aldermen At the beginning In good order Marching first. Well regulated step by step Followed the Presidents, Along with the Councillors Judges & Lieutenants: Then came the Swiss royal guard, Providing drums, Accompanied by fifes And other instruments. […] Then the King of Navarre 115 Marched in great magnificence, Side by side with him The two brothers of the King: It was splendid To see their clothing, Richly trimmed So magnificently. Figure 3.2: Chanson Nouvelle a l’encontre des Huguenotz (1572) 116 The song that precedes this verse is cast in a vastly differing mode of jubilation. The “Chanson à l’encontre des Huguenots” celebrates the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, the eruption of Catholic fury that followed on the heels of this wedding. The massacre was instigated by the murder of a number of Huguenot noblemen who were in Paris for Henry and Marguerite’s marriage. The details of how an attempt to remove the Huguenot threat by exterminating specific leaders mushroomed into a city-wide killing frenzy still remain, to some degree, murky. Barbara Diefendorf, however, has outlined the most convincing chain of events, in which she emphasizes the role, not only of commands and actions, but also of emotions and rumor. The carnage was instigated by an attempt to assassinate Admiral Coligny. It is unknown who ordered this assasination, but it was surely rooted in some kind of vendetta against him. Staying in Paris after this attempt on his life, Coligny and his followers began voicing their own desires for revenge, which fomented rumors that there was going to be a Huguenot attack on the city. Based on various records, it is clear that Charles IX then hatched a plot to destroy the Huguenot leadership – an offensive strategy that did not take into account the potential consequences.332 The primary responsibility for the murders of the Huguenot nobles was given to the king’s Swiss and French guards, as well as those of the duc d’Anjou under the command of the ducs de Guise and d’Aumale and other Catholic leaders. The king then ordered that the city gates be locked, preventing anyone from entering or leaving; and, finally, weapons were distributed to militia officers and all citizens capable of bearing arms.333 Diefendorf argues that there is no evidence that anyone received a royal command to massacre any Huguenots other than a select group of nobles. There was an order, however, that “spread like wildfire”: as the Duc de Guise was leaving the admiral’s lodging, he encouraged his troops to annihilate Coligny with the directive “it is the king’s command.” Uttered in the midst of the city’s tumult, as people prepared for a potential invasion by Huguenot forces, the imperative was broadly received as an authorization from the king to slaughter the entire Protestant population of Paris. In Diefendorf’s words, “taken to mean that the king had commanded the death of all Huguenots, these words transformed private passions into public duty. They authorized actions that many people might otherwise have held in check.”334 Once made public, these passions were impossible to restrain, and the killings and raids continued in Paris for about a week. Interestingly, many of the people who participated in the massacre were fortified by alcohol; no doubt, plenty of grotesque, Bacchic imbibing took place. Such scenes as the one recounted by the German Protestant students hiding out (masquerading as Catholics) in a captain’s abode in Orléans were common experiences of the massacres: The house was always full of soldiers, and there wasn’t a lunch, nor dinner that there wasn’t at the table twelve or fourteen murderers whose actions we had to applaud […] Some of them reported knowing of Huguenots hideouts, and they planned to butcher them after dinner […] We were constantly in wait for our turn to come. In the midst of […] these executioners, we […] had to act gay, libertine, 332 333 334 As Diefendorf and several other historians make clear, the city was ready to erupt in violence. Mack Holt has also stated that Charles IX was acting rather blindly if he did not realize that this inflammtory action would light up the tinderbox that was Paris: “Any thoughtful person should have realized that the slightest provocation was liable to spark off an explosion of popular anger.” Holt, The French Wars of Religion, 85. Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross, 93-106. Ibid., 99. 117 licentious. We had to laugh […] as each of them told of their exploits; we had to act satisfied, in seeing […] those who were being dragged to the river, and act like we took some pleasure in this execution, in this massacre […] And we didn’t just have to eat and drink with these wretches […] we had to also gladden them with music, playing guitar, lute, and amusing them with dances. Women also came in the middle of the night, when we were in bed […] and they would sing obscene songs.335 News about the massacre spread quickly to the provinces, and over the next six weeks violence erupted in Orléans, La Charité, Meaux, Bourges, Saumur, Angers, Troyes, Rouen, Bordeaux, Toulouse, Gaillac, and, of course, Lyon. Importantly, seven of these cities had been taken over by Protestant minorities during the first war.336 As Diefendorf reminds us, the events of the recent past were closely connected to, and indeed, had a strong role in propelling, the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres.337 In Lyon, the sequence of events that took place is similarly foggy. The bare outlines are as follows: on August 27, Governor Mandelot received a letter from Charles IX in which he acknowledged the assassination of Admiral Coligny. News of the massacre in Paris was rapidly diffused throughout Lyon, promptly igniting confessional hatreds. Almost immediately, on the night of August 27, a group of artisans attacked and killed the Protestant preacher Jacques Langlois, throwing his body into the Saône. On August 28, Mandelot received instructions from the king, which historians have been unable to trace. As a result of these directions, he convened the city council, which decided to arrest Protestants and seize their property. When Mandelot had an edict proclaimed throughout the city that all Protestants were to report to city hall to receive orders from the king, a few hundred people showed up, all of whom were arrested and imprisoned, largely in religious houses. On Sunday, August 30, a group stormed the Cordeliers convent and murdered all of the Protestants jailed there. Despite Governor Mandelot’s attempt to stem the violence at this point, it kept escalating – in part because of the interference of Catholic zealots on the city council.338 What followed on August 30 has become known as the Vespres Lyonnais because the church bells tolled for Sunday services while ritualistic murders proliferated in the streets. As Natalie Zemon David has argued for much of the Catholic violence throughout the Wars of Religion, the Vespres saw Lyonnais enacting rites of purification to cleanse their city of heretical “pollution.” They tied Protestants together around the neck and threw them into the Saône; they forced a son to slaughter his father as he prayed to God.339 Precisely this kind of ritual purification is recounted in the “Chanson à l’encontre des Huguenotz,” which I will call “Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz,” following the habit of referring to timbres in the sixteenth century by their textual incipits. “Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz” 335 336 337 338 339 Quoted in French translation (from Latin) in Charles Read, “La Saint-Barthélemy à Orléans Racontés par Joh. Wilh. De Botzheim, Étudiant Allemand Témoin Oculaire, 1572,” Bulletin du Société de l’Histoire du Protestantisme Français 21 (1872): 345-416 at 383. Translation mine. Holt, The French Wars of Religion, 92. Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross, 106. Arthur Puyroche, “Le Saint-Barthélemy à Lyon et le gouverneur Mandelot,” Bulletin du Société Histoire du Protestantisme Français 18 (1869): 353-67 at 359-61. Hartley, “War and Tolerance,” 101. 118 sings in justificatory tones, suggesting that there had been a plot against Charles IX’s life, and that the murders of the Protestant nobles had thus been a preemptive strike. It also gives gory descriptions of the carnage, and the scenes of ritualistic cleansing: Un vray Neron y estoit Nommé Capitaine Pille, Qui grandement pretendoit De endommager la ville, Il y laissa la houbille, Les trippes & les boyaux, La commune file à file L’estendirent sur carreaux. De savoir nombre des morts C’est une chose impossible. Sans fin sans cesse les morts Pendant la fureur terrible, Tant des masles que femelles Estoyent tous jettez dans l’eau, Pour en porter les nouvelles Jusqu’à Rouan sans batteau. There was a real Nero there Named Captain Pille, Whose grand intent it was To ravage the city, He left the offal there, Stomachs and guts, All those people in a row Stretched across the squares. To know the number of deaths Is impossible. The killings went on without end During the formidable furor, Men as much as women Were all thrown into the water, To carry the news To Rouen without a boat. This celebratory sentiment of hurling dead Protestants into the Seine river follows from an opening line that demands a bodily response to terror: 119 Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz, Maintenant sont mis par terre Les plus grand de vos suppos Tremble, tremble Huguenots Your biggest goons Have now been knocked flat The overarching message is that both the king and God have exacted their fury through this massacre: Vous avez tant offensé Charles noble Roy de France, Que Dieu s’en est courroucé, Et en a prins la vengeance You have so offended Charles, noble King of France That God is furious, And has exacted vengeance The pamphlet informs us that this poem is all to be sung to the tune “Noble Fille de Paris” – a designation that brings up the material challenges of tracing timbres. While this timbre does not appear in any of the collections and pamphlets that I have examined, the disappearance of such songs is not out of the ordinary, for most of these ephemera have been lost. Given shared commonalities with a song entitled “Noble Ville de Paris,” however, I suspect that the phrase “Noble Fille de Paris” came about due to a typographical error made during the preparation of this pamphlet. The chanson nouvelle “Noble Ville de Paris” circulated in Bordeaux’s Beau Recueil – a collection that, as noted above, Rigaud seems to have pillaged for his 1571 Recueil de plusieurs chansons.340 “Noble Ville de Paris” relays the threat of the Huguenots to the city of Paris: Noble Ville de Paris Le coeur de toute la France, Huguenots avoyent promis De te mettre à outrance: Le bon Dieu par sa puissance Les en a bien engardé, C’eust esté un grand dommage Pour la saincte Chrestienté. 340 If this pamphlet were a copy of one circulating in Paris, which is also possible, this could have been a typo as a result of a very quick production process in re-printing it in Lyon. 120 Noble city of Paris The heart of France, The Huguenots had promised To destroy you: The good Lord by his power Protected them [the Parisians], It would have been a great shame For holy Christianity. Not only does “Noble Ville de Paris” utilize the same meter and rhyme scheme as “Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz,” it also expresses the sentiment that the invasive Huguenots need to be eradicated from the heart of France. The affective focus of “Noble Ville de Paris” would have provided an ideal timbre for “Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz,” as it afforded an intertextual gesture that was certainly operative in other chansons nouvelles that I will discuss below. Unfortunately, no trace has thus far emerged of the timbre on which “Noble Ville de Paris” was itself based (“Nous avons un nouveau Roy en nostre pays de France”) – but the poetic form itself suggests that the tune was derived from the dance type of the triple meter branle gay. As Daniel Heartz, Howard Mayer Brown, and most recently, Kate van Orden have shown, many of the voix de villes used as timbres for chansons nouvelles collections stemmed from dance forms, and were often even called chanson-branle, chanson-galliard, etc.; 341 Daniel Heartz has offered evidence that the branle may even have been based on vocal antecedents.342 Unlike more courtly dance forms, the branle was also danced widely across class divisions, indeed, often being sung by dancers, rather than being played on instruments. Branles continued to open festive occasions throughout the sixteenth century – and by mid-century, popular festivities were on the rise in Lyon, as Catholic leaders sought to profit from the draw of celebratory Catholic events that would “[strike] at the Protestants’ Achilles heel.”343 The most typical rhythmic form of a branle gay is given in Example 3.1: Example 3.1: Typical Branle Gay 341 342 343 Daniel Heartz, “Sources and forms of the French instrumental dance in the 16th century” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 1957); Howard Mayer Brown, “‘Ut Musica Poesis’: Music and Poetry in France in the Late Sixteenth Century,” Early Music History 13 (1994): 1-63; and van Orden, “Vernacular Culture.” See, for example, Adrian Le Roy’s Second livre de giterre, which sets monophonic voix de villes next to a guitar intabulations, as well as his 1571 Air de cour miz sur le luth. A sextodecimo recueil of contrafacta printed by Nicolas Bonfons in 1579 also designates dance forms as lyric poetry for music, the Gelodacrye amoureuse, Contenant plusieurs Aubades, Chansons, Gaillardes, Pavanes, Bransles, Sonnets, Stances, Madrigales, Chapitres, Odes, & autres especes de Poësie Lyrique. Par Claude de Pontoux, à Paris. In “Sources and forms,” Heartz laments the fact that if branles were based on vocal antecedents, that would mean that hundreds of branle-texts have been lost, 258. Hoffman, Church and Community, 42. 121 This phrase pattern would have fit easily onto the poem, “Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz,” although it would not have scanned perfectly: Trem-bléz trém-blez Hu-gué-nóts ... Such ill-fitting melody bases were not atypical in this quickly-produced genre – so long as it could be set syllabically to the timbre. These patterns were, in any case, flexible. Adapting a version of the branle gay from Thoinot Arbeau’s Orchesographie, a dance treatise from 1588, in Example 3.2, we arrive at emphases that fit more directly onto both “Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz” and “Noble Ville de Paris”: Example 3.2: (Adapted) Branle, Arbeau, Orchesographie344 The long-standing practical connection between song and dance is evident in many contrafacta timbres, a linkage that also becomes clear in the case of many of the timbres for which tunes have proved untraceable, but where hints of dance forms manifest within the contrafacta texts themselves. Following Roger Chartier’s argument that reading was a communal practice, it seem reasonable to assume that chansons nouvelles were musically “read” to others, and likely even with others. The social bonding that took place in relation to these sung dance forms underscores the communal aspect of such acts, for they would have evoked a muscular memory of dancing, if not soliciting dancing itself.345 The branle is particularly relevant in this regard, for Arbeau (through the voice of the teacher in his didactic dialogue) calls this form a “fun” dance, because it involves people having a good time together. In fact, “as soon as you start a branle, other will join in with you, young men as much as women,” resulting, most frequently, in a round dance.346 Because branles were danced in court as well as street festivals, they reached a broad public, one including buyers of polemical recueils and pamphlets. In Lyon, the audience for these prints encompassed not only elites, but also the artisan class – a sizeable population in the city. As Natalie Zemon Davis has shown, such artisans in skilled and newer trades had been drawn to the reformed church because they believed that it would afford them opportunities for advancement. As it became evident that lower-born tradesmen would not be allowed to attain influential positions within the new church, these artisans abandoned the reformed church for 344 345 346 Thoinot Arbeau, Orchesographie et traicte en forme de dialogue par lequel toutes personnes peuvent facilement apprendre et practiquer l’honneste exercise des dances (Langres: Jean des Preyz, 1588; re-editions 1589, and 1596), 72. Arbeau’s original featured more reiterated semiminims, but any musician would have modified this rhythmic pattern on the fly into held minims, where appropriate. On the argument for communal reading, see, for instance, Roger Chartier, “Leisure and Sociability: Reading Aloud in Early Modern Europe,” in Urban Life in the Renaissance, eds. Susan Zimmerman and Ronald Weissman (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 1989). Arbeau, Orchesographie, 70, “Quand vous commencerez un branle plusieurs aultres se joindront avec vous, tant jeusne hommes que damoiselles.” 122 Catholicism; by 1566 they had basically all returned to the fold.347 This was largely the populace that the Catholic clergy targeted when they began to resurrect and promote popular festivities. They were part of the menu peuple, and surely also “the rabble” as far as many authority figures – both Protestant and Catholic – were concerned. Catholic festivities mobilized populations in physical forms of celebratory worship and community coherence, and chansons nouvelles resonated with these same bodily gestures. Propaganda in the oral, physical culture of Lyon was thus intra-medial and purposefully oriented to a broad cross-section of “the people.” In this regard, while the complex question of who took part in the Vespres Lyonnais still remains uncertain, it is nonetheless striking that a notable portion of the artisan classes were active participants in the slaughter.348 Iusta Ira Dei Barbara Diefendorf has claimed of the French capital: “it is easy to explain – and so to dismiss – the religious violence in Paris as the product of the base passions of an inflamed and fanatical mob.”349 In reality, the populace had been primed by preachers and polemical discourse to feel justified in murdering their Protestant neighbors. In Lyon, an anonymous Protestant pamphlet, the Discours du Massacre of 1574 claimed that several placards had been affixed and proclaimed on street corners that “launched the city into rumor” and incited violence.350 Since placards were ephemera, very few of them have survived in general, and there are none extant that specifically called for a massacre in Lyon. There is, however, a traceable outpouring of justificatory feeling in the city about the massacre in Paris – an outpouring that included a stream of propaganda focused on ideas about Catholic anger. Such propaganda moved across media, from processions, to preaching, to cheap print, to the symbolic gestures of violence. All of these forms served to inflame individuals and crowds, and their means were not separable; for, as we will see, they all used familiar, overlapping techniques and formats that had distinct and powerful meanings for the local urban populace. As noted above, Catholics had been primed to believe that murdering Protestants would be justified because it was exacting God’s vengeance. In a treatise originally printed in 1562, the preacher Renée Benoist, for instance, called up references from the Old Testament, in which God “animated the people to kill the false prophets without sparing a single one, thereby teaching us how grievously and without mercy the obstinate heretics should be punished and exterminated.”351 After the eruption of popular violence in Paris, invective flew off the presses that celebrated the cleansing of France through these very rhetorical turns. Such polemic, 347 348 349 350 351 See Davis, Chapter One, “Strikes and Salvation at Lyon,” in Society and Culture. This is part of a more general trend that Natalie Zemon Davis traces amidst both Protestant iconoclastic riots and crowds of Catholic murderers during the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres. She notes that this sometimes expanded to include men from “lower orders,” but more often “the social composition of the crowds extended upward to encompass merchants, notaries, and lawyers, as well as […] clerics.” Society and Culture, 182. Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross, 146. Discours du Massacre de Ceux de la Religion Reformee, fait à Lyon, par les Catholiques Romains, le vingthuictieme du mois d’Aoust & jours ensuyvans, de l’an 1572 […] Avec une amiable remonstrance aux Lyonnois lesquels par timidité & co[n]tre leur propre conscience continuent à faire hommage aux idoles (s.l.: s.n., 1574), 45, “Car il y eut quelques placars affichez qui remire[n]t la ville en rumeur.” Translation mine. From Benoist’s Le triomphe et excellent victoire de la foy, quoted in Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross, 151. 123 however, needed to take various forms in order appeal to diverse audiences and satisfy local styles of consumption. In Lyon in 1572, ephemera that addressed righteous anger at the Protestants in France ranged from prose discourses heavy in ancient and biblical citations, to slang and pun-filled poems. Michel Jove, the Jesuit’s official printer (who also printed Désiré’s Contrepoison in Lyon), published a half-dozen short polemical prints in the wake of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre that have survived. The Discours sur les causes de l’execution faicte és personnes de ceux qui avoyent conjuré contre le Roy & son Estat (Lyon: Michel Jove, 1572) is announced loudly as a Jesuit publication through the IHS dominating the cover page. The Discours sur les causes narrates all of the events since 1560 – the machinations and treachery of the Huguenots – that led to the necessary execution of key Protestant noblemen. It argues that these executions were particularly imperative because the Admiral had conspired with his allies to kill the king and queen after the attempt on his own life. The Discours sur les causes ends by directly discussing the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre in Paris – claiming that “God chose our King as minister and executioner of his fury and ire [upon the Protestant heretics]” and that, in support of their King, the people of Paris – Catholics, who adore their Prince – acted in his defence by killing those in the city who were of the Admiral’s religion.352 One must “excuse the fury of the people driven by good zeal,” the Discours tells us, “for it is nearly impossible to contain and restrain, once it is unleashed.”353 Following the great example of Paris, the pamphlet goes on, other cities followed suit, in order to exterminate those who espoused religious beliefs opposed to the king’s. Interestingly, the Discours sur les causes also claims that the massacre provided an “antidote” to the Protestant scheme: “[God] divinely inspired [Charles IX’s] heart to administer a prompt antidote, and to avert [a Protestant attack] by a sudden resolution and execution.”354 These prose arguments are presented in an accessibly narrative and conversational tone, but their layout (in seemingly never-ending paragraphs that occupy entire pages) demands a particularly methodical manner of reading. The Brieve Remonstrance sur la mort de l’Amiral, et ses adherans. Au peuple François, published in Lyon by Benoist Rigaud in 1572, on the other hand, is laid out similarly for the reader, but additionally, it includes ancient and biblical references, offered as justificatory antecedents for the king’s actions. Many of these allusions became standard in this type of rhetoric during the wars – such as prophets bringing down the house of Ahab, or Michael the Armorian’s murder of Emperor Leo the Armenian. Strongly resembling speeches made in the French Academies and parlement (particularly the Brieve Remonstrance), these discourses were rooted in oral practice. Indeed, some of the same speakers’ perorations were published in such pamphlets. Also in 1572, for example, Michel Jove printed Ronsard’s Remonstrance au peuple de France. Je vous prie freres, de prendre garde à ceux qui font dissensions & scandales contre la doctrine que vous avez apprinse, & vous retirez d’eux. S. Paul. Rom. 16. Opening with an evocation “Ô Ciel, ô Mer, ô Terre, ô Dieu Pere commun …,” this poem rhetorically chides God for his indifference to the evils hatched by his creatures on earth. Ronsard denounces the violence perpetrated by the enemies of the kingdom, 352 353 354 Discours sur les causes, D1v., “Dieu […] a choysi nostre Roy pour ministre & executeur de sa fureur & ire.” Ibid., “excuser le fureur du peuple poussée d’un bon zele, laquelle est mal aisée à contenir & refrener, quand une fois elle est esmüe.” Ibid., D1v-2r, “[Dieu] inspira divinement [le] coeur [de Charles IX] d’y donner une prompte contrepoison, & de la prevenir par une soudaine resolution & execution.” 124 and ends by asking God to punish these rebels. The Remonstrance, however, was first printed in 1563 (and written at the end of 1562).355 Its reissue in 1572 by Michel Jove expropriates its relevance for the current moment, when figures like Ronsard claimed that the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre was God’s way of exacting vengeance on the Protestants.356 The particular wording in this Remonstrance is also important, referencing “rebels,” rather than “heretics.” This distinction is also made in the king’s formal declaration on the massacre, the Declaration du Roy, sur la mort de l’Admiral, ses adherans & complices, Avec tresexpresses defences à tous Gentils-hommes & autres de la Religion pretendue reformee, de ne faire assemblee ne presches, pour quelque occasion que ce soit, also printed by Michel Jove in 1572.357 In large part, this declaration was published in order to assuage Protestant rulers (most of all Queen Elizabeth); it was meant to convince them that these murders did not signify that freedom of religious practice for Protestants was being violated in France.358 What was at stake in all of these pamphlets was the justification of the massacre. The recurring argument across these prints focused on notions of “just anger” – that, if a people betray the king, then his righteous ire must be visited upon them. For, to betray the king is also to betray God, since his title is God-given. According to this line of thinking, the passions of the masses represented an extension of His anger. Unsurprisingly, given the acute effects of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres, anger and its public manifestations continued to be a major concern. Through the many edicts prohibiting inflammatory behavior, the Crown made clear its unease with the possibility that crowds could be propelled towards exacting God’s righteous fury.359 Economies of Anger In this volatile context, King Charles IX founded an academy devoted to the inculcation of proper affect and morals. The Académie du Palais, in some ways an extension of the Académie de Poésie et de Musique, was headed by the same politician who had published a justification of Charles IX’s actions on August 23, 1572: Guy du Faur, Seigneur de Pibrac.360 355 356 357 358 359 360 The Remonstrance follows on the heels of Ronsard’s Discours des misères and the Continuation du Discours des Miseres. Ronsard’s Discours des misères was incomparably successful, and disseminated as placards across France. On this series of Discours and Remonstrances by Ronsard, see Monica Barsi, “Pierre Belon, chroniqueur de la première guerre de religion,” in Les Bruit des Armes: Mises en formes et désinformations en Europe pendant les guerres de Religion (1560-1610). Actes du colloque international, Tours, 5-7 novembre 2009, eds. Jérémie Foa and Paul-Alexis Mellet (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2012). In addition, the important Catholic poets Jodelle and Baïf declared similar positions. Arlette Jouanna, “Le discour royal sur la Saint-Barthélemy,” in Le Bruit des Armes, 203. Ibid., 209. See A. Fontanon, Les Edicts et ordonnances des rois de France depuis Louis VI, 4 vols. (Paris, 1611), 4; as well as F. A. Isambert, A.J. Jourdan, and Decrusy, eds., Recueil des anciennes lois françaises depuis l’an 420 jusqu’à la révolution, 24 vols. (Paris: Belin-Le-Prieur, Verdiere, 1822-1833), 14 and 15; and André Stegmann, Édits des guerres de Religion (Paris: Vrin, 1979). Pibrac was also the author of a collection of moralizing quatrains that had an enormously long-lasting success, the Quatrains du Sieur de Pibrac, published in its full edition of 126 quatrains in 1576 (Paris: Morel). This complete edition would almost immediately become the standard French primer, as well as being set to both monophonic and polyphonic music in at least eight different prints. For a full discussion of the relevance of the Quatrains and musical settings in relation to civility and the crisis of the Wars of Religion, see Chapter 7, “A 125 Serving as the conseiller d’état at the time, Pibrac wrote a public defence of the king’s massacre of the Protestant nobles.361 In 1576 when the Académie du Palais was established, Pibrac, in the service of the king, had been trying to put an end to the fifth War of Religion; this was achieved with the Peace of Monsieur and the Edict of Beaulieu in May of 1576.362 The Académie du Palais was instituted in accordance with these pacificatory aims; it was headed by a politique (Pibrac), but brought together staunch Catholics, like Ronsard, and militant Protestants, like Agrippa d’Aubigné.363 The Académie du Palais was devoted to discourses on moral philosophy, intellectual virtues, moral virtues and their opposed vices, and the emotions. In what Francis Yates has called a “complement” to the Platonic orientation of the Académie de Poésie et de Musique, the curriculum of the Académie du Palais was defined by an Aristotelian rationalism.364 The Aristotelian logic underlying most of the orations of the Académie structured prevailing philosophical discussions about anger and fear. There is a basic division in the Académie’s discourses between the intellectual virtues and the moral virtues, where the intellectual virtues are generally conceded to be superior to the moral ones; this is because the latter are dependent on the former, since moral virtues can only be exercised with prudence (an intellectual virtue).365 Put another way, the moral virtues are acquired by subduing the irrational part of the soul, where the tumultuous passions reign.366 All in all, to these academicians, virtue required exercising rationality. The difficult emotions that bring disorder to the soul will never go away; instead, one must learn to control them, and to make right use of the power of the passions. The ancient moral philosophy that the orators of the Académie du Palais drew upon thus focused on regulation; the proper regulation of the self, moreover, was deeply connected to the proper regulation of the state. As such, the speakers constantly considered the relationships between private and public morals. The problem with these connections, as Yates observes, “is how to direct the natural energies of society as a whole, so that anger, for example, takes the virtuous form of severity in maintaining justice and punishing lawlessness and crime, and not the vicious form of tyranny in rulers and rebellious violence in subjects.”367 After a first session that dealt with the moral and intellectual virtues and a second session that discussed sadness, the third meeting of the Académie du Palais focused on anger. There were five discourses given on anger: one is missing, one is anonymous, one is by Jean Bertaut, and another is by Amadis Jamyn. The first speech was given by Pibrac, under the title “On Ire and how it must be moderated.”368 While strongly rooted in Aristotelian rationalism, Pibrac’s 361 362 363 364 365 366 367 368 New Generation of Musical Civilities: The Quatrains de Pibrac,” in van Orden, Materialities: Books, Readers, and the Chanson. Importantly, despite earlier historians’ assertions, this discourse did not claim that Charles IX was responsible for the entire massacre. See Jouanna, “Le discour royal sur la Saint-Barthélemy,” 208-09. Loris Petris, “Le Magistrat Gallican et l’Académie du Palais: Le Discours de l’ire & comment il la faut moderer de Guy de Faur de Pibrac (Etude et Edition),” Nouvelle Revue du Seizième Siècle 22 (2004): 57-82 at 58. Yates, The French Academies, 105-130. Ibid., 107. This is Desportes’ basic argument. Ibid., 109. This is Ronsard’s configuration. Ibid., 108. Yates, The French Academies, 119. Pibrac in Robert J. Sealy, The Palace Academy of Henry III (Genève: Droz, 1981), 44, “De l’Ire et comme il la faut modérer.” 126 argument assimilates elements of Plutarch’s moderation, and Seneca’s firmness.369 Following Seneca, he argues that you should internalize the battle and use your reason to control your anger, since you will never eradicate it. Pibrac starts his discourse by stating that “the Ancients esteemed [anger] to be the most powerful of all of the passions,” clearly emphasizing the importance of evaluating this emotion.370 He then advances two emotional categories: that of righteous anger (from Lactance’s De ira Dei),371 and that of the moderation of anger (drawing on Plutarch’s De virtute morali). The discourse is then divided into two parts: the first part, “preservatifs,” offers practical solutions for avoiding anger, through reason and judgement; the second part, “remedes,” suggests how to dilute anger through time, and how to develop a habitus of mastery over this passion.372 Charles IX specifically requested that the discourses be filled with examples,373 and Pibrac did not fail on this account. Particularly notable is his reference to the Roman Emperor Theodosius, for it would, no doubt, have solicited recollections of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres: “Theodosius, while a very holy Emperor, was nonetheless inclined towards anger, [and when] an uprising occurred in Tessalonica, in the heat [of anger] he killed seven thousand citizens, after which he [...] wept, and publicly repented.”374 Ire, Pibrac says, can fall on those closest to us, for we feel that they have the greatest obligation towards us.375 The stickiness of anger (configured, perhaps, in affective economies) is what makes it so dangerous: “ire differs from the other passions in that it is drawn to and sticks to all things.”376 We must refrain from becoming too attached to or superstitious about things, for if they are broken or destroyed, we will erupt in anger.377 All of these warnings were overtly connected to the imperative affective concerns of the Wars of Religion, as crowds lashed out angrily at people in their community (cleansing the internal pollution), and attacks on objects were so frequently the tipping points towards bloody riots – conflicts which, again, stuck affectively to the memories of those communities.378 While Pibrac’s speech was particularly pertinent to the formal sense of anger that ensued in the political aftermath of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres, other orators argued similar points that made obvious (if oblique) references to the civil conflict plaguing the country. 369 370 371 372 373 374 375 376 377 378 I draw most of the summary references in this paragraph from Loris Petris’ article and edition “Le Magistrat Gallican.” In Petris’ edition of Pibrac, “Le Magistrat Gallican,” 65, “[l’ire est] celle que les Anciens ont estimée la plus puissante de toutes les passions.” All translations from the Petris edition are my own. Interestingly, this Lactancius volume was published in Lyon in at least nine separate editions between 1541 and 1594. See the excellent digital humanities resource, www.ustc.ac.uk. Accessed June 1, 2015. Pibrac here takes up the Aristotelian idea of habitus (hexis) to argue that “l’accoustumence” to anger is dangerous and that habitual “douceur” is preferable. Yates, The French Academies, 109. In Petris’ edition of Pibrac, “Le Magistrat Gallican,” 81, “Thëodose, bien que tres sainct Empereur, mais trops encline à la collere, pour une esmeüte arrivée en Tessalonique fist tuer en la chaude sept mille citoiens, dont apres il […] plora, et fist ponitence publique.” Ibid., 74-5. This idea is inspired by Aristotle. Ibid., “l’ire differe des autres passion en cela, qu’elle ce prend & s’attache à toutes chose.” Ibid., 77. For example, affect sticking to objects was particularly evident in the case of the conflict over the Gastines cross, recollected by chroniclers of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, who “also attached a special meaning to the crosses that everyone affixed to their hats as a sign of Catholic allegiance. By God’s grace, they said, where one cross has been torn down, many thousand have now sprung up.” Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross, 106. 127 For example, the anonymous speaker points to the ruins caused by anger: When anger […] is not controlled by reason and turns to rage, it is the most mischievous and dangerous pest in the world […] it has for its end blood and murder; it banishes citizens and makes towns and provinces into deserts. And all the ruins that you see are the marks of anger.379 And later, the same orator speaks of the just anger of a ruler: The anger of a prince or of a great king […] should rise, not from impatience, but from good zeal. One ought to be angry with those who trouble the public repose. One ought to be angry with an avaricious magistrate, a thieving captain, with a soldier who ravishes women, robs poor houses, kidnaps labourers, denies God.380 These descriptions resemble so many pamphlets, discourses, and songs that recount the sufferings of war; and, yet again, this speech justifies punishing those who disturb the peace, those who rebel against the authority of the king. Throughout these speeches, the passions are imagined as overlapping and bleeding into one another. For example, as Amadis Jamyn argues, anger is a tyrant that pulls behind it its satellites: wrath, pain, spite, hatred, discord, and animosity.381 Especially relevant in this respect is a vice for which there is one surviving discourse: fear. The author of this oration claims the existence of active fear (to fear) and passive fear (to be feared), the latter belonging to those who have the power to do harm (emperors, kings, princes, etc.). But rulers will only be feared by people who are wicked; people who are good will perceive this power with reverence and respect: “Where the King is not feared, the State is thrown into disorder [“bien esbranlé”].”382 This discourse basically catalogues a parade of exempla, focusing on how rulers have successfully used fear (passively) and suffered from fear (actively) – including stories about Denis the Tyrant, Sulpitius, Tigranes, and Cesar. Thus oriented around the problem of utilizing fear in rulership, this oration states: “Sire, if we see you to be fearful [“craintif”], everyone will believe themselves lost. Everyone will lose courage and your enemies will become far more fierce and bold, seeing as Fear shows a loss of courage.”383 The perspectives in this discourse intimate that the academicians conceptualized emotions as extraordinarily volatile phenomena, particularly as they were made public: fear could manifest as timidity, fright, and horror (timidité, frayeur, horreur).384 The Académie du Palais focused on the edification of the king, and so, the discourses were oriented to the ideal ways in which a ruler should make use of the passions. The emotional reactions – fear, anger, hatred – of the king, 379 380 381 382 383 384 Quoted in Yates, The French Academies, 119. Ibid. Édouard Fremy, L’Académie des Derniers Valois, 1570-1585 (Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1887), 287. Quoted in Ibid., 329, “Où le Roy n’est pas craint, l’Estat est bien esbranlé.” All translations from Fremy are my own. Ibid., 335, “Sire, si on vous voyoit craintif, chacun penseroit estre perdu. Chacun perdroit courage et vos ennemys en seroient d’aultant plus furieux et hardis, joinct que la Crainte monstre une lasche courage.” Ibid., 328. The term that I am translating as “fear” is actually “crainte” – which might be more accurately characterised as a sort of dread-fear. For, one of the sub-parts of “crainte” that the speaker defines is also actually “peur” (fear). 128 however, impacted the behaviors of the people. Drawing on the example of Theodosius referenced above, Pibrac warns: “Like an enormous fire [the ire] of Princes can destroy entire cities in an instant, and trigger [“allumer”] wars and immortal discords.”385 These academic arguments were relevant beyond intellectual history because, as we have seen, they were formulated in relation to the effects of propaganda, sometimes propagated by these same orators. Such propaganda was effective, in part, because of the affective currents already in motion. During the fourth war, which led up to the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres, the citizens of Lyon experienced a constant state of terror. Many of the battles of this war were fought in the Rhône valley, and the Huguenot leader, Gaspard de Coligny, threatened to seize the city for months at a time.386 In the midst of these dangers, Catholic extremism took root within the governing structures of the city. Although the peace agreement of 1563 had split the city council equally between Catholics and Protestants, by 1567 Protestants were outnumbered eight to four, and by 1568 François de Mandelot, a deep supporter of zealous Catholics, was appointed governor. Amplifying hostilities, in 1570, the city council elected to subsidize the preaching of the mendicant orders in an effort to “further the Catholic religion.”387 Printers in Lyon responded to these shifts in municipal power by producing inexpensive editions that took up the radicalizing Catholic stance. Particularly notable is Benoist Rigaud’s 1571 print, Le Recueil de Plusieurs Chansons Nouvelles, avec Plusieurs autres Chansons de guerres, & d’amours, plaisantes & recreatives, qui n’ont jamais esté imprimees jusques à present: nouvellement composees par divers Autheurs, which capitalized on feelings of fear, hatred, and anger. Despite its claim to contain songs “never before printed,” as noted above, this collection reprints Bordeaux’s 1568/9 recueil almost in its entirety. Much like Jove’s 1572 reissue of Ronsard’s 1563 Remonstrance, printers exploited the recurrence of political instability and an overheated affective climate. As each new war erupted, these printers applied existing rhetoric and gestures to new contexts (new conflicts, destruction, murders), either by replicating old prints that were once again relevant, or by applying their polemical approaches to new ones. Like much ephemera, such appeals were oriented to regional demands.388 Rigaud’s recueil, for example, adds in a few “new songs” particular to Lyon, including the “Cantique Joyeux, de la prinse qu’ont faict les Catholiques à Lyon, à l’encontre des Huguenots: Tant au Lyonnois, Dauphiné, Masconnois, Viennois qu’autre lieux circonvoisins, en l’an 1567. Sur le chant d’une chanson qui se dict: Passant melancolie, &c.” Offering the narrative report of an observer, the song focuses on the Protestant uprisings that were planned in concert with Condé and Coligny’s plot in September of 1567 to remove the king from the Guise-dominated court.389 But the song also speaks to a specificly Lyonnais experience of impending conflict and civic militarism: Quant Lyon ouyt dire La prinse de Mascon, 385 386 387 388 389 Petris edition of Pibrac, 80, “[L’ire] des Princes comme un grand ambrazement peut à l’instant destruire des villes de fon en comble, et allumer des guerres & dissensions immortelles.” Arthur Kleinclausz, Histoire de Lyon, 2 vols. (Lyon: Librairie Pierre Masson, 1939), 1: 424-26. Hoffman, Church and Community, 38. Although Rigaud’s prints could normally see a wide circulation through the Lyon fairs, in periods of greatest conflict international and even national distribution was markedly reduced. On this plot see Holt, The French Wars of Religion, 64. 129 Chascun droit se retire Armer en sa maison Et puis se mit en place De Mars monstrant la face Contre les Huguenots […] Vous eussiez veu en armes Artisans aux escarts, Faisans cris & alarmes Je dis de toutes parts, Encontre ces rebelles Qui font pis qu’infideles Cruels sans charité, Vous eussiez veu sans cesse Faire la garde expresse De Lyon à seurté. When Lyon heard of The siege of Mascon, Everyone went immediately Home to arm themselves And then they took their stations With Mars [god of war] manifest Against the Huguenots […] You would have seen armed Artisans in all quarters, Shouting warnings & signals I do say, everywhere, Against the rebels Who are nought but infidels Cruel without charity You would have seen without end [These people] making haste to guard Lyon in safety. Songs already in Bordeaux’s collection also carried particular affective weight in Lyon during this period. Take, for example an “Autre Chanson nouvelle qui se chante a plaisir sur le chant Te Rogamus audi nos.” The Rogation Days for which the “Te Rogamus audi nos” litany was sung were extremely popular in the city.390 For centuries, throngs of lay people were so enthusiastic about participating in these rites that they had to be beaten back from the 390 See BML, Entrées royales et fêtes populaires à Lyon du XV-XVIII siècles: exposition 12 juin-12 juillet 1970 (Lyon: Bibliothèque Municipale de Lyon, 1970), 25. 130 processions to protect their sacrosanct order.391 The processions, supplications for good harvests, took place over the three days preceding Ascension, and traversed both the Saône and the Rhône rivers, weaving across the entire city in order to visit thirty-two churches and monasteries.392 The hordes of avid lay participants would keep gathering into the seventeenth century, as attested by Jean Roussin’s Offices litanies et prières qui se chantent ez trois jours des Rogations, au diocèse de Lyon, avec toutes les règles et belles céremonie qui s’observent en iceux of 1642.393 Directing a simple Te Rogamus formula towards invective ends would surely have elicited emotional memories of Rogation Day processions, during which Catholic rites marked out confessional space in the city and sonically articulated a sense of spiritual community. In imitation of the repetitive Rogation litanies on which it was based, the Te Rogamus contrafactum returns constantly to a refrain: Et huguenots retirez vous Ou vous serez pendus trestous And Huguenots withdraw Or you will all be hanged Not only did this song evoke the experience of Rogation Days, it also began with the commonplace and ear-catching refrain “Voulez ouyr chanson chanter …” – just the type of opener that colporteurs would sing as they hawked these pamphlets and recueils on the city streets.394 While it was conventional enough to orient such inexpensive prints as Bordeaux’s (or Rigaud’s) recueil to local usage, parochial concerns were foregrounded even more in the most quickly-printed editions like placards and short pamphlets.395 This begs a question about the 1572 contrafactum “Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz”: why did it only refer to the massacre in Paris? It seems probably, in fact, that this song was printed between the massacre that began in Paris on August 24, and the most severe outbreak of popular violence in Lyon on August 30.396 As previously noted, polemical placards and pamphlets were purportedly printed up quickly in the city, helping to stimulate passions and rumors.397 As a sticky medium, a simple inflammatory 391 392 393 394 395 396 397 Pascal Collomb, “Les Processions des Rogations à Lyon au Moyen Âge: Les Parcours, Le Mythe et L’Auctoritas Cathédrale (XIIe-XVIe Siècle),” Sources Travaux Historiques 51 (2000): 69-94 at 90. See also my discussion in Chapter Four of this dissertation on the relationship between Rogation Day processions and the ancient martyrs of the city, as well as the ways in which certain city spaces referenced key myths associated with the early Christian history of Lyon. BML, Entrées royales, 28. For a discussion of song and colportage, see van Orden, “Cheap Print,” 284-286. Luc Racaut has argued that the quickly-produced polemic that flew off of local presses during times of conflict tended to be notably localized in content. Racaut, Hatred in Print, 15. Broadsides and pamphlets could be printed with impressive efficiency, as Stallybrass shows through examples from Plantin’s shop: “In 1572, the duke of Alva put in an order to Plantin for a broadside justifying the sacking of Malines by his troops on October 2–4 of that year. Alva delivered the order for 150 copies in Dutch and 100 in French at 9 A.M. and Plantin delivered them “aprèsdisnée” on the same day. Similarly, in 1577 Plantin received an order to print German passports at 11 A.M. and he completed them by 4 P.M. the same day.” Stallybrass, “Little Jobs,” 334. See the discussion of the Discours du Massacre (1574) above. 131 song could have been disseminated across the city with far more versatility than just print itself. As such, “Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz,” or songs like it, surely incited the populace to direct violence. As with the slippages between fear, anger, and hatred theorized and discussed in the Académie du Palais discourses, individual emotions could blur and blend in the process of becoming public (as affect). As printers shot polemic into public circulation, individuals dealing with anxieties and threats within their local communities were confronted with irate rhetoric. In fact, polemicists profited from this very blur between emotions as they were made public – mingling senses of hatred, anger, and fear. In such circumstances, collective affect could be pushed in radical directions through what may (now) seem like small gestures.398 One of the stickiest forms of propaganda – and propaganda in the sense of propagating – was surely the “new song” that activated both the rhetoric experienced in simplified sermons, as well as the extant valences of the timbre itself. Just as the Académie du Palais’ concerns with anger and hatred were intimately wound up with popular polemic and actions, so too were the objectives of the Académie de Poésie et de Musique related to issues arising outside of the court. Indeed, the interconnections between these Académies that have been explored by Francis Yates index these relationships.399 In the neoPlatonic intellectual environment of the Académie de Poésie et de Musique, participants imagined a perfectly unified musical-poetic art that possessed the potential to touch the listener beyond reason, to bring them to a state of divine “enthusiasm.” Although their theories and practices (namely the development of musique mésurée à l’antique) were articulated through neo-Platonic frameworks, the project of the Académie de Poésie et de Musique remained political. As the Letters Patent famously stated: [...] it is of great importance for the morals of citizens in a town that the music current in the country should be retained under certain laws for […] where music is disordered, there morals are also depraved, and where it is well ordered, there men are well tutored.400 For the furtherance of such neo-Platonic politics, the collaborative poets and musicians of the Académie created the placid musique mésurée à l’antique with its homophonic textures that precisely followed the lilting polymeters of the vers mésurés à l’antique. This was a music conceived to mollify the dangerously inflamed public, to temper the passions. By no means a detached academic pursuit, this genre was the brainchild of two main collaborators – the poet Jean-Antoine de Baïf and the composer Claude Le Jeune – both of whom were intimately involved in the religious politics of their time. Like Ronsard and Jodelle, Baïf publicly supported the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre; he also wrote to the Pope to plead for permission to create Catholic translations of the psalms, in order to combat the infectious 398 399 400 In the words of Natalie Zemon Davis, “Even in the case of religious violence, crowds do not act in a mindless way. They will to some degree have a sense that what they are doing is legitimate, the occasions will relate somehow to the defence of their cause, and their violent behavior will have some structure to it.” Davis, Society and Culture, 187. See in particular Chapter VI, “Moral Philosophy in the Academies: The Palace Academy,” in Yates, The French Academies. Quoted in Yates, The French Academies, 36. 132 spread of the Protestant psalms.401 Openly confessing Protestantism, Claude Le Jeune composed multiple settings of the Calvinist psalms – including an intricate polyphonic setting for 2-7 voices, the Dodecacorde Contenant Douze Pseaumes de David, mis en musique selon les douze modes (La Rochelle: Haultin, 1598).402 These twelve pieces have often been attended to as exempla of composition in the Zarlinian 12-mode system; but musicological inquiry has, for the most part, focused on the rhetorical gestures of this publication, rather than analyzing its musical application of modal theory. For, in the preface, Le Jeune offers a perfect nugget of French neoPlatonic modal theory, combining ancient Greek concepts with Christian Divinity and sovereign power:403 I thought that it would be appropriate during a time when so much disharmony has been harmonized, to offer to the French [people] something to unify their tones like their thoughts, and their voices as well as their hearts [...] May it please God to extinguish the furies through the Dorian mode that the Phrygian might have awakened [...] [Nonetheless,] the destiny and virtue of the King have far more power than these effects, more than all of the Tones in the world: His magnanimity does not require the Modes, with which Timothy awoke the heart of Alexander.404 By 1598, it was the former Protestant, King Henry IV being lauded in this preface; this music was already in manuscript, however, during the Siege of Paris of 1590. Following a period of extreme persecution and violence in the city throughout the rule of the Catholic League, Paris 401 402 403 404 “French Odes on the Psalms of David […] set to the tunes and measures with the aid of learned doctors of music [… so they may be] sung openly outside churches.” Baïf in Ibid., 71. The Dodecacorde also used the orthodox 1562 psalm tunes as tenors. Editions of Le Jeune’s music that were dedicated to the Protestant psalms include: Dix pseaumes de David nouvellement composez a quatre parties en forme de motets avec un dialogue (Paris: Adrian Le Roy et Robert Ballard, 1564), for 4 voices and 7 voices; Les 150 pseaumes (La Rochele, 1601 and 1608; Paris, 1613; Amsterdam, 1629; Leiden, 1635; Paris, 1650; Schiedam, 1664; London [English trans.], 1775), for 5 voices, which experienced an incredibly long-running popularity; Premier livre, contenant 50 pseaumes de David mis en musique (Paris: Pierre Ballard, 1602), for 3 voices; Second livre contenant 50 pseaumes de David (Paris: Pierre Ballard, 1608), for 3 voices; Troisième livre des pseaumes de David (Paris: Pierre Ballard, 1610), for 3 voices; and the curiously intertextual (with poetry originally by Baïf, and re-written by a Protestant poet – probably Agrippa d’Aubigné - before publication, but potentially after Le Jeune’s death) Pseaumes en vers mesurez (Paris: Pierre Ballard, 1606), for 2-8 voices. On this last print, see Isabelle His’ excellent modern edition and essay, Pseaumes en vers mesurez: 1606 (Turhout: Brepols, 2007). The preface was addressed the Catholic (Charles-Robert de La Marck) Duc de Bouillon, an important figure in the court of Henry IV, and a friend of Charles IX. He regularly lived at the court of the last of the Valois dynasty, and one would assume that Le Jeune had the opportunity to engage with him during that era. On Charles-Robert de La Mark see Arlette Jouanna, Jacqueline Boucher, Dominique Biloghi and Guy Le Thiec, Histoire et Dictionnaire des Guerres de Religion (Turin: Robert La Front, 1998), 1014. Le Jeune, Dodecacorde, ijr-ijv, “J’ay pensé estre à propos en un temps où tant de discords sont accordez, donnez aux François dequoy unir les tons comme les pensees, & les voix aussi bien que les coeurs […] Pleust à Dieu pouvoir par le Mode Dorien esteindre les fureurs, que le Phrigien peut avoir esmeuës [...] A tels effects ont eu plus de puissance l’heur & la vertu du Roy, que tous les Tons du monde: Sa magnanimité n’a point eu besoin des Modes, desquels Timothee resveilloit le coeur d’Alexandre.” All translations of Le Jeune’s Dodecacorde mine. See also Anne Harrington Heider’s impressive edition and commentary on the collection: Claude Le Jeune, Dodecacorde, ed. Anne Harrington Heider, 3 vols. (Madison: A-R Editions, 1983-1990). 133 was reduced to a state of starvation during the siege. In response to this turmoil, Le Jeune had tried to flee by the Porte Saint Denis, and only the intervention of his Catholic composer friend Jacques Mauduit had saved his Dodecacorde from the flames.405 Clearly, the Académie du Palais’ neo-Platonic musical-poetic project did not succeed in pacifying the “furies” of the French populace; as we have seen, these “furies” were ignited by the fiery breath of popular song. Surely Le Jeune witnessed this inflammatory music in the streets of Paris, for his introduction to the Dodecacorde culminates with a despairing statement about the positive powers of music: “For the future, I would not place the degree of power in music as had been attributed to it by the Ancients.”406 Songs Danced in the City In his 1575 Recueil des plus belles et excellentes chansons en forme de voix de villes tirees de divers autheurs & Poëtes François, tant anciens que modernes, Jehan Chardavoine tendered a preface (uncharacteristic of the anonymous recueils of chansons), in which he catalogues the diverse forms of voix de villes: […] from the double pavan, to the simple, and from the common to the royal to the heroic, and from the galliard, similarly double common, rendering the medium or heroic: from the branle gay, to the branle simple, moving to the branle du tourdion, and finally to so many other songs that we commonly dance and sing in the cities.407 As Kate van Orden has argued, in writing down these tunes from his aural memory, Chardavoine was engaged in a performative process of recollecting, and transmitting.408 Many of the songs that Chardavoine notated were, indeed, clearly popular urban songs, as a number of them appeared frequently as timbres in recueils de chansons nouvelles – timbres that were so well-known in urban centres that there was no need to write them down when they were indexed in such recueils.409 As Chardavoine observes, many of these tunes derive from social dances. Based not only on Chardavoine’s description, but also on Arbeau’s discussions and Le Roy’s classifications of “chanson-bransles” or “chanson-galliards,” chansons in dance forms were also clearly sung to dances. These timbres thus became charged with somatic experience, as they were associated with group movement, with gay and festive – or sometimes even raucous, in the 405 406 407 408 409 This is according to Marin Mersenne’s account in Harmonie Universelle: contenant la théorie et la pratique de la musique où il est traité des consonances, des dissonances des genres, des modes, de la composition, de la voix, des chants, & toutes sortes d’instrumens harmoniques, 2 vols. (Paris: Pierre Ballard, 1636-37), 1: 63-65. Ibid., ijr, “Et pour l’advenir, je ne voudroy pas tant de force à la musique, comme luy en ont attribué les Anciens.” Chardavoine, Recueil des plus belles et excellentes chansons (Paris: Claude Micard, 1575), fol. 3, “[...] de la pavanne double, à la simple, et de la commune à la royale et à l’heroique, et de la galliarde semblablement double commune, rondoyante moyêne ou heroique: du bra[n]sle gay, du bra[n]sle simple, du bransle rondoyant du tourdion et finablement de tant d’autres chanso[n]s que l’o[n] dance et que l’o[n] chante ordinairement par les villes.” van Orden, “Vernacular Song,” 254-55. van Orden, “Cheap Print and Street Song,” 278. 134 case of the branle – gestures.410 In the hyper-charged social atmosphere of the Wars of Religion, these celebrations could also quickly turn to violence. Natalie Zemon Davis recounts such a “tipping point” during a festive youth society’s Pentecostal dance in Pamiers in 1566: The Calvinists, who had stoned earlier dances, tried to prevent the affair, but the Catholic group insisted. “If [the heretics] can preach secretly, then we can dance – or it will cost five hundred heads.” After a procession with relics and a silver statue of St. Anthony, the dancing began, three by three, with tambourines and minstrels. When they got to the quarter where Pastor Du Moulin was preaching, the song turned into “kill, kill,” and serious fighting began that was to divide the town for three days. “Before long I’ll be up to my elbows in Huguenots blood,” one of the dancers said. He was to be disappointed, for this time it was the Huguenots who won.411 Through their extant relationships, such organizations – youth societies, confraternities, craft groupings – could easily become hotbeds of religious disturbance. The forms that such social associations took in the first place were made manifest through movement, theatricality, and music. For, much like the example of Pamiers above, one of the main public functions of these groups was to organize festivities within their community. As we will see in Chapter Four, the songs featured in such celebrations overlapped with the timbres for the chansons nouvelles published in pamphlets, placards, and recueils. And a large portion of the audience that purchased such cheap print hailed from the artisan class in Lyon, the most substantial population active in these organizations. While the rise of literacy in the sixteenth century meant a growing public for printed materials, the degree of such literacy varied dramatically. The printed chanson nouvelle, with short, rhyming lines, spread in neat stanzas across the page, offered a type of reading that was accessible for the marginally literate. Printers would have logically chosen timbres that were actually popular, if they hoped to turn a profit from their contrafacta. Some timbres were even so well-known by their opening incipit that they did not require an indication of what they were to be “sung to the tune of.” This was the case with most complaintes, poetic laments normally in first-person voice that circulated in families of songs on timbres like “Dame d’honneur,” “Laissez la verde couleur,” or “Combien est heureuse.” Complaintes based on these timbres only needed to be signaled by their incipits, through which the reader or listener would also be primed for the sorrowful affect that the coming “new song” would carry. These stereotyped genres and familiar timbres originated in a shared repertoire of song that moved amidst the urban population at large. They were used in a wide variety of settings, and for vastly differing purposes; the same timbres were often even appropriated for contrafacta 410 411 One might note a potential etymological link here between “esbranler” (to agitate, to unsettle) and the dance for the “branle” – a relationship that may also be true in its movement to England, where it was called the “brawle.” For the Dictionnaire de Moyen Français (a digital agglomeration of medieval and early modern sources, www.atilf.fr/dmf. Accessed June 1, 2015) states that the branle figuratively indicates “agitation, trouble, a bad situation, and danger,” while the Dictionnaire de l’Ancienne Langue Française (www.micmap.org/dicfro/search/dictionnaire-godefroy. Accessed June 1, 2015) refers to “la bransle” as a tocsin – the bell that was rung in order to activate a community during times of danger. Davis, Society and Culture, 172-73. 135 by both Catholic and Protestant mudrackers. The timbre “Pienne,” for instance, shows up in the slew of Protestant propaganda that circulated in Lyon around the period of the coup, including the short in-octavo pamphlet Complainte et Chanson de la grand paillarde Babylonienne de Rome. Sur le chant de Pienne.412 This complainte mockingly sets the voice of the Pope calling for help: Les cardinaux & evesques Archevesques Venez tous me secourir […] Cardinals & bishops Archbishops Come all to my rescue […] In 1563, another piece of Protestant polemic used the timbre “Pienne” again, this time in concert with a psalm timbre in a brief in-octavo pamphlet entitled Cantique Nouveau, Contenant le discours de la guerre de Lyon, & de l’assistance que Dieu a faite à son Eglise audit lieu, durant le temps de son affliction de l’an 1562. Sur le chant de Pienne. Plus Un Cantique spirituel de la persecution des fideles Chrestiens, & de leur delivrance, les exhortant à rendre graces à Dieu, se voyans delivrez par sa divine providence, Sur le chant du Pseaume 99.413 Catholic polemicists made use of the timbre as well, as in Bordeaux’s “Autre Chanson sur le chant de Pienne.” In a relatively short poem of nine verses, this song erupts with disgust: O Malheureux heretiques Scismatiques, Plus puants infects que boucs, Maintenant que voulez dire De vostre ire Et la peine qu’avez tous. Longtemps y a que la race Et la trace De vous court sans expirer, Veu les choses imparfaites Par vous faictes Comme apres orez parler. O evil heretics Schismatics, Stinkier infections than buboes Now what do you want to say About your ire 412 413 This pamphlet was printed in Lyon by Jean Saugrain in 1561. This pamphlet was also printed by Jean Saugrain, but in 1563. 136 And the pain that you all have. It’s been a long time that the race And the trace Of you refuses to perish, Seeing the impure things That you have done Like after your prayers are said.414 One of the most interesting uses of “Pienne” survives in another in-octavo pamphlet printed by Michel Jove in 1568, the Cantique d’oraison pour le peuple de Lyon. This polemical tract calls for God’s help in Lyon against the heretics, “Satan and his accomplices”: O Dieu des forte armées Arrangées, Pour maintenir vostre nom, Ne mettés point en arriere La priere Que vous presente Lyon […] O God of powerful Well-ordered armies, To preserve your name, Do not forget The prayer That Lyon proffers to you [...] The rhetoric itself is quite typical; what is striking is that this “Cantique” adopts the recognizable poetic form of “Pienne,” but neither this, nor any timbre is indicated. As in all of the songs based on “Pienne” above, the “Cantique d’oraison pour le peuple de Lyon” adopts the heterometric alternations of 7/3/7/7/3/7 syllable lines, with an aabaab rhyme scheme. “Pienne,” was written by an anonymous poet in 1556, and it mourns the lost love of Montmorency and Mlle de Pienne (separated by the king and Montmorency’s father): Mais pas ne te chaille, Pienne: Te souvienne Seulement de nos amours; Car en despit de l’envie, Quoy qu’on die, Ton amy serai toujours.415 414 415 This last line probably refers to the rumors that circulated (in many forms) about supposed orgies that took place in the secretive Protestant conventicles. Quoted in Édouard Bourciez, Les moeurs polies et la littérature de la cour sous Henry II (Geneva: Slatkine Reprints, 1967). 137 Of courtly origins, this poem was also based on the medieval fixed form of the virelai.416 The pattern, in fact, was replicated in Ronsard’s famous “Quand ce beau printemps je voy”: Quand ce beau Printemps je voy, J’apperçoy Rajeunir la terre et l’onde Et me semble que le jour, Et l’amour, Comme enfants naissent au monde.417 This poem was set polyphonically by La Grotte in his Chansons de P. de Ronsard, Ph. Desportes, et autres mises en musique par N. de la Grotte (Paris: Le Roy & Ballard), an adaptation of which was given in Adrian Le Roy’s Livre d’Airs de Cour miz sur le Luth of 1571. La Grotte’s settings are all in four-part homophony characteristic of the voix de villes, the melodic emphasis of which is highlighted in Le Roy’s lute arrangement. “Quand ce beau Printemps je voy” also appeared in the Chardavoine recueil of 1576, and, while the tune featured in Le Roy’s arrangement and the one printed in Chardavoine’s monophonic rendition are not completely dissimilar (see Figures 3.3 and 3.4), their strongest relationship involves their use of shared rhythmic gestures: these tunes for Ronsard’s poem all use the demure rhythms of the pavan.418 Ronsard’s deployment of this popular poetic form was surely linked to his aim to unify poetry and music, producing poetry that was suited to musical settings. Particularly pertinent in this respect is Ronsard’s insistence on short, heterometric verses amenable to musical setting.419 Also towards this end, Ronsard came to emphasize the importance of strophic regularity and 416 417 418 419 This form was derided by Joachim Du Bellay in his Deffense et illustration de la langue français in 1549, wherein he decried “rondeaux, ballades […] chantz royaulx, chansons et autres telle episseries, qui corrumpent le goust de nostre Lange.” Livre II, Chpt IV, 108. Despite his insistence, however, Du Bellay explicitly utilized one of the most popular vaudeville patterns with his Dido’s lament: Tu veux tes voiles hausser, Et laisser Didon, que l’Amour afole [...] The involved debates about “poésie pour musique,” and the French language, etc. at court, however, is a can worms that I will leave sealed in this chapter. Issues about the French language, however, and the debate between Aneau and Du Bellay are referenced briefly in Chapter One. On rules for the medieval virelai, see Eustache Deschamps, Art de dictier et de fere chançons, balades, virelais et rondeau, Deborah M. SinnreichLevi, ed. and trans. (East Lansing, MI: Colleaugues Press, 1994). On the use of this pattern in sixteenth century poetry, see the discussion in Hugues Vaganay, “Une Strophe Lyrique au XVI siècle” in Mélanges de philologie, d’histoire et de littérature offerts à Henri Hauvette (Paris: Les Presses françaises, 1934). Pierre de Ronsard, Le Second Livre des Amours, ed. Alexandre Micha (Geneva: Droz, 1951), 130. There are essential similarities in other regards between these two tunes. For one, they are both in a similar tonal type – Chardavoinne’s in ♮ – A - c3, and Le Roy’s in ♭ – G – g2 (Le Roy’s could be considered a transposition of ♮ – A – c3; but what is more important is that the melodies are based on the same interval relationship – tone/semitone/tone/tone/semitone). Further, they both begin and end on their respective pitch orientations (A and G). The opening phrase is also melodically similar, although Le Roy’s leaps on “beau printe[mp]s.” In general, Chardavoinne’s tune is more conjunct, a notable difference in the third phrase “Rajeunir la terre & l’onde,” where LeRoy’s features more decorated movements. Jeanice Brooks, “Ronsard, the Lyric Sonnet, and Late Sixteenth-Century Chanson,” Early Music History 13 (1994): 65-84 at 65. 138 alternating masculine/feminine rhymes – approaches that greatly propelled the popularity of the sonnet in the mid-to-later sixteenth century.420 Figure 3.3: “Quand ce beau printemps je voy,” Le Roy, Livre d’Airs de Cours (1571) Figure 3.4: “Quand ce beau printemps je voy,” Chardavoinne, Le recueil ... des voix de villes (1576) Poets interested in these relationships, I would argue, adopted practices that were concurrently popular in oral circulation in forms that used the same structuring procedures.421 Clément Marot, for instance, is commonly credited with the invention of the coq a l’asne genre, 420 421 Ibid., 65-84. Ronsard’s Amours are telling in this regard, as they fully employed popular methods of contrafacture. The poems were printed with a famous musical supplement that offers settings of nine poems by Claude Goudimel, Clément Janequin, Pierre Certon, and Marc-Antoine Muret. The preface (by Ambroise de la Porte) explains that these sonnet settings were intended as formulas for singing the other sonnets in the publication that had the same structures – a practice that emulated the reproductive practice of contrafacta more broadly. Ibid., 70-72. See also Jean-Pierre Ouvrard, “Le sonnet ronsardien en musique: du Supplément de 1552 à 1580,” Revue de Musicologie 74 (1988): 149-64. 139 which takes its name from a French phrase, meaning to jump quickly between very different topics, “from the cock to the ass” (various puns likely intended). This genre relied so heavily on puns in an aural sense that its word play could often only be understood once it was read aloud.422 The coq a l’asne was also clearly connected with the popular theatre of Marot’s time – the farces and sotties that were put on by the law clerks’ societies, the basoche, and the Enfants sans soucy. The sottie, for one, exploiting the slap-stick potentials of fools (sots or badins) and acrobatics, was a genre based on gibberish – word plays, almost unintelligible patter, and obscenities.423 As I explored in Chapter One, the timbres used in these secular theatre pieces also appeared in the recueils and pamphlets of chansons nouvelles; indeed, contrafacta were staples of the theatre in general.424 Further, the playwrights for secular theatre were clearly middle-class; and, as Howard Mayer Brown has argued, the plays themselves can be described as “popular” entertainments, mainly directed at the lower and middle classes.425 The coq a l’asne proved convenient to the theatricalization of polemic, and it appears as a designated genre form in numerous recueils and pamphlets. In the propagandistic context under review here, Tatiana Debbagi Baranova has suggested that the coq a l’asne’s form made clear its instructive purpose, as it demanded that political events, important figures, and religious doctrine all be recollected.426 This genre’s educative construction, I would argue, also played on various forms of orality. Take, for example, the Coq a l’asne des Huguenotz tuez, a pamphlet published by Rigaud in Lyon in 1572. This coq a l’asne’s relationships to other contrafacta points to the genre’s popular musical dissemination, as the Coq a l’asne des Huguenotz tuez appears to have been based on a timbre that was used for a later chanson, “Tremblez, Tremblez, Sancerre et la Charité,” which was then used as a timbre for the “Coq a l’asne et chanson Sur ce qui s’est passé en France puis la mort d’Henry de Valois jusques aux nouvelles deffaictes.”427 Importantly, the timbre upon which the Coq a l’asne des Huguenotz tuez was based was not indexed on the pamphlet; rather, from our vantage point, it has had to be deduced by comparison. All of these coq a l’asnes are written in a distinctive pattern of verses in 11/7/7/11, 7/7/5/7, 7/5/7/7-syllablelines, in itself suggesting a timbre relationship. Tellingly, within this triad of coq a l’asnes, the comical tone of all of the poems celebrates the destruction of the Huguenots, in varied contexts – following from the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres, the obliteration of Protestant strongholds, and the rise of the Catholic League after the murder of Henry III. Given its repetition within publications in Lyon across different printers, I would suggest that this timbre 422 423 424 425 426 427 This aural emphasis has been connected to the Grand Rhetoriqueurs’ (including Marot’s father) propensity for rimes equivoquées, wherein the rhyme itself was a pun, sounding precisely the same when read aloud. The difference, however, was one of mood, for the Grand Rhetoriqueurs used the technique gravely, and Marot used it as an elaborate joke. See Christine Scollen-Jimac, “Clément Marot: Protestant humanist or court jester?,” Renaissance Studies 3 (1989): 134-146. Brown, Music in the French Secular Theatre, 10-11. See also Ibid., 183-282, particularly the lengthy catalogue of theatrical chansons that lays out the diverse sources in which specific chansons appear – pieces of theatre, as well as noel and chanson recueils, and musical settings in print and manuscript. Ibid., 40. See Tatiana Debbagi Baranova, Chapter Two, “La rhétorique et la communication politique,” in À Coups des Libelles: Une culture politique au temps des guerres de religion (1562-1598) (Genève: Droz, 2012). “Tremblez, Tremblez, Sancerre et la Charité” appears in Rigaud’s Sommaire de tous les recueils des chansons tant amoureuses que musicales of 1579, printed in Lyon. The “Coq a l’asne et chanson Sur ce qui s’est passé en France puis la mort d’Henry de Valois jusques aux nouvelles deffaictes” was also printed in Lyon, but as an inoctavo pamphlet in 1590 by Etienne Servain for Louis Tantillon. 140 might have had a local circulation and popularity. Furthermore, a timbre based on such heterometric verse (rather than the flatter octosyllabic lines of Marot’s coqs a l’asnes) could have been even more suited to catchy songs – as argued by both Ronsard and Sebillet.428 Evidently, as with the complainte, there were numerous timbre types that could be signaled by some aspect of the poem – most obviously its syllabic and rhyming structure. The appearance of both the Cantique d’oraison pour le peuple de Lyon as well as various coq a l’asnes without any indication of timbres suggests that many other musical-poetic prints may have been published that were not labeled as such by the designation “sing to the tune of.” Countless polemical pamphlets circulated in poetic forms that could easily have been known locally as timbres. In this sense, we have likely lost track of an even wider network of invective contrafacta, simply because some of them were not obviously marked with the graphic stamp of a timbre. Affective Intertextuality The production of political chansons nouvelles might have escalated substantially during the Wars of Religion, but the tradition of contrafacture and, in fact, many of the timbres, goes back, at least, to the noel genre. This long history of timbre movement between what has been separately viewed as “religious” contrafacta and polemical contrafacta speaks to the intertextual and inter-dependant valences that all contrafacta could take on. As discussed in Chapter One, noels were Christian carols in the vernacular, generally on subjects connected to Christmas and Easter, extant in manuscript since the end of the fifteenth century, and popular in the sixteenth century. Noels often resembled plays in miniature, and most of them actually described the same events as cycles of mystery plays for the Nativity, moving from the Creation, to the Fall, the Prophecies, the life of Mary, the Nativity, the Adoration, the Circumcision, Epiphany, the massacre of the Innocents, the flight to Egypt, and the death of Herod. The central event, of course, was the Nativity. As explored in Chapter One, Barthélemy Aneau published a contrafacta noel collection based on popular tunes in 1539. This print emerged within the pedagogical humanistic movements that Aneau had been engaged with since the 1530s; as we saw, by the 1560s – indeed the period that witnessed Aneau’s murder for his purported Protestantism – the overt relationship of the noel with the Marian cult began to ally the song form with Catholicism. While most noels were focused on topics related to the Nativity (which had confessional implications through the Marian cult), they could also be directly polemical. Take, for instance, the “Noel nouveau sur la chanson, Vous perdez temps” which appeared in Benoist Rigaud’s La Grande Bible des Noelz, printed around 1580 in Lyon. The text of “Vous perdez temps” was written by Clément Marot, and it appeared in numerous polyphonic versions from 1538 to 1591.429 This noel, in fact, addresses the Marian cult and its “heretic” critics head-on: 428 429 It might be argued that Ronsard was noting the popular appeal of heterometric verse for music, rather than developing his own poetic theory. These include settings by Sermisy (Attaignant, 1538; Moderne, 1540; and Phalèse, 1560), Arcadelt (Moderne, 1538), Mittantier (Rhau, 1545; and Phalèse, 1571), Guyot dit Casteli (Susato, 1550), and Pevernage (Plantin, 1591). 141 Vo[us] perdez te[m]ps heretiques infames De blaso[n]ner co[n]tre la saincte vierge, Chacun la sçait belle sur toutes femmes, Seule sans per, de vertu la concierge: Vostre langue perverse Dangeureuse & diverse, D’elle a voulu mesdire: Mais il vous faut desdire: Car malgré vous la fus est honnoree, Mere de Dieu & Royne couronnee. You’re wasting your time you villainous heretics Speaking ill of the Holy Virgin, Everyone knows that she is the most beautiful of all women, Without equal, attendant of virtue: Your perverse language Dangerous & divergent, Wanting to speak ill of her But you must be rebutted: Because despite you she is honored, Mother of God & crowned Queen. The same “Vous perdez temps” timbre was also printed in the Bordeaux recueil, in the appended section of Nouvelle chansons spirituelles, pour recreer les esprits des Catholiques, afliges des ennemis, & adversaires de la Foy, which featured “new songs” by the priest Legier Bontemps. The song based on this timbre similarly attacks blasphemers – but this time more generally those who speak ill of the Church: Vous perdez temps de mespriser l’Eglise, Gens qui voulez divertir ma creance, Plus la blasmez, plus je la loue & prise, S’esbahit on se fy mets ma fiance: Les Sacremens d’icelle Donnent vie eternelle Voulez vous plus grands graces? Cessez donc voz audaces: Car verité vaincra vostre mesdire, Qui en mesdit il acquiert de Dieu l’ire. You’re wasting your time in scorning the Church. People who want to divert my faith, The more you speak ill of it, the more I praise it and hold it dear, They’re astonished that I confidently put my faith [in the Church]: 142 The Sacraments of [the Church] Offer eternal life Do you want greater blessings? Stop then your audacities: Because the truth will conquer your denigration, [For] in maligning [the Church] one solicits the wrath of God. Noels were also deployed as timbres for Catholic polemic because of their connection to the Marian cult. For instance, in his invective collection of chansons nouvelles, Christophe de Bordeaux presented the “Nouel pour l’amour de Marie” as a timbre for a “Chanson Nouvelle faicte sur la mort & trespas de Monsieur de Guise” – a designation that was replicated by Benoist Rigaud when he gleaned songs from Bordeaux’s collection in 1571. The choice of this Marian noel timbre for a polemical Catholic song seems purposeful, for the “Noel pour l’amour de Marie” was set to the timbre “Faulce Trahison” in collections of noels dating back to the first decade of the sixteenth century; “Faulce Trahison” could thus have readily been referenced for this “new song” since it was still frequently used as a timbre at this point.430 While extant noel collections precede recueils of chansons nouvelles, the concordances between these genres attests to the popularity of new timbres (such as the “Noel nouveau pour l’amour de Marie”) and the fluidity of movement between what we might label as genres. Once a “new song” appeared in circulation as a timbre, the contrafactum had clearly reached a level of popularity in oral circulation. Continuing its diffusion, this contrafactum-timbre could to carry with it the uses and connotations of all of the tune’s manifestations. In this palimpsestic regard, a placard purchased in Paris in 1589 by the politique Pierre de l’Estoile points backwards in time through its intertextuality. The Chanson Pleine de Resjouissance. Avec Actions de Grace, sur la mort advenue à Henry de Vallois, par un Sainct et très digne de mémoire Frère JACQUES CLÉMENT, Religieux du couvent des Jacobins de Paris, natif de Sorbonne, poussé du S. Esprit, pour mettre les Catholiques en liberté hurls invectives at the dead king, saying that “He has sucked out the blood / Of his gentle people,” and celebrates the “knife of hope [that] / Killed him instantly.”431 The auditor is instructed to: Dont le chantons bien heureux D’avoir fait tel sacrifice Faisant mourir l’orgueilleux, De tous les maux la nourrice, Qui tant afflige son peuple, Qu’il ne peult plus respirer432 430 431 432 As noted above, Rigaud’s La Grande Bible des Noelz printed around the 1570s-1580s offers a “Noel pour l’amour de Marie” which is to be sung on “Faulce trahison.” In G. Brunet. et al, eds. Mémoires-Journaux de Pierre de L’Estoile. Edition pour la première fois complète et entièrement conforme aux manuscrits originaux., 12 vols. (Paris: Librairie des Bibliophiles, 1878) 4: 218, “Il a sucé tout le sang / De son peuple débonnaire. / Et ce cousteau d’épérance / L’a fait mourir à l’instant.” All of the translations of the Mémoires-Journaux are my own. Ibid. 143 Thus sing out joyfully For having made such a sacrifice Killing the arrogant one [Henry III], The source of all the ills Which so afflict his people, Such that they can no longer breathe Subverting the celebratory cheer of “Vive le Roy” that would normally follow the king’s coronation, the song cries: Il est mort, ce traistre Roy! Il est mort, ô l’hypocrite! [...] Sa sépulchre aux Enfers, Et à jamais languissant, C’est le guerdon des malfaits.433 He is dead, this traitor King! He is dead, oh the hypocrite! [...] His sepulchre is in Hell. In payback for his villainy He will languish there forever. The murder of Henry III was not just hot news, but also advantageous propaganda for the Catholic League, which had been making incredible gains since 1588. By 1589, when the capital languished under a reign of terror, anyone suspected of politique or royalist sympathies would, at minimum, be beaten and have their property confiscated. In November of 1589, almost fifty suspected politiques were hung in public squares.434 As I will explore in more detail in Chapter Four, Lyon had also been turning dramatically towards radical Catholicism, in large part due to the strong influence of the Archbishop Pierre D’Epinac and Governor Mandelot, as well as powerful figures on the city council like Claude de Rubys.435 In February of 1589, Lyon formally swore its allegiance to the League. Engaging in tactics of fear-mongering, this Chanson Pleine de Resjouissance harnessed a lingering sense of terror: that of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres. For this contrafactum was to be sung to the tune of our first polemical song: “Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz.” That the contrafactum label (“Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz”) was used, rather than the timbre from 1572 (“Noble Ville de Paris”), tells us that this heated song had remained popular as a contrafactum for seventeen years of the Wars of Religion. Its re-use to celebrate the massacre of the king not only complicates its lyrical meanings, but also amplifies the anger mobilized by the original 433 434 435 Ibid. Holt, The French Wars of Religion, 137. On Pierre D’Epinac, see P. Richard, La papauté et la Ligue française: Pierre D’Épinac, Archevêque de Lyon (1573-1599) (Paris: A. Picard et Fils, 1901). 144 contrafactum. The Chanson Pleine de Resjouissance, then, offers artifactual evidence for the intensification of affect across the Wars of Religion – affect that was sustained across decades, reinforced and re-embodied constantly through song. Peace Mongers Not everyone was on board with such fear-mongering, however, and amidst the polemic that celebrated and called for renewed aggression against Protestants, there were also vocal calls for peace.436 Much of the population was not as radicalized as some powerful elites, and, indeed, yearned for concord in their community. Such a desire was expressed in a pamphlet Rigaud published in 1588, the Chanson Nouvelle sur la paix par le peuple de France. As might be expected, this song pleads for peace, stating: Quel profit est ce de combattre Sans sortir hors de sa maison? Puis que le malheur & desastre Fait tomber sur soy la cloison? […] La France a faict rougir la terre De son sang par ses propres mains, Et n’a pas craint de faire guerre Contre soy, ny ses plus prochains. What is the point of warring Without leaving your own house? Such that sadness and disaster Fall upon your own region? […] France has reddened the earth With her blood, by her own hands, And was not afraid of waging war Against herself, nor those closest to her. This song of peace was to be sung to the tune of “Maintenant c’est un cas estrange”; like so many contrafacta, this may have been a dance tune, as in Certon’s setting it follows the form of a triple-meter branle gay. What is most striking about this print, however, is the re-use of the woodcut that had graced the title page of “Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz” (see Figure 3.5). Whether or not this woodcut was recycled by Rigaud himself, its use on this pamphlet elicits a strongly contrasting sense of community practice: in the 1572 image, the group gathered around a musical print to celebrate the massacre of heretics, whereas in 1588, the musical gathering 436 It might be noted, however, that Catholic polemicists also made calls for “peace” – but their sense of peace was more accurately a kingdom free of the anarchic disruption of the Huguenots. 145 sings for peace and conciliation. Figure 3.5: Chanson Nouvelle de la Paix par le Peuple de France (1588) Popular frustrations with the League in Lyon fomented to the point that, on the nights of February 6 and 7, 1594, people took to the streets, erecting barricades throughout the city in protest. On February 7, royalists and politiques forcibly kicked the radical Leaguer members of 146 the city council (including Claude de Rubys) out of the city.437 While I will explore this period in greater detail in Chapter Four, suffice it to say for the moment that, once the League was formally defeated with Henry IV’s entry into Lyon in 1594, the expressive-affective landscape of Lyon shifted substantially. This is not to say that polemic was not still produced, but rather, that it changed focus. Two recueils printed in 1596 in Lyon by Papillon, for example, are rhetorically positioned as retrospectives, looking back on the tragedies and victories of the wars. Each volume is thoroughly royalist and politique, incorporating songs that bark curses to the League in the dying voice of Henry III, or celebrate the glorious entry of Henry IV into Lyon.438 These volumes demonstrate the ubiquity of the practice of borrowing across and between recueils, and more quickly printed items (pamphlets and single sheets) as they replicate both the “Chanson Nouvelle de la resjouissance des François sur l’heureux advenement de la païx. Sur le chant Vueille mon Dieu par ta grace, &c.” that also appeared in Rigaud’s 1580 Fleur des Chansons Nouvelles Traittans partie de l’amour, partie de la guerre, selon les occurrences du temps present. Composees sur chants modernes fort recretifs, as well as a fly-away sheet that contained a “Chanson Nouvelle sur la Tyrannie de la Ligue. Et se chante sur le chant, Les Soldats de la guetisse, &c.” – the combination of which captures the valence of these 1596 volumes. More curiously, both of these Papillon prints, Le Recueil de Plusieurs Belles Chansons nouvelles & moderne recueillies de plusieurs Autheurs, and the Fleur de Toutes les Plus Belles Chansons, et plus amoureuses qui se soyent faictes, dont plusieurs n’ont encores esté Imprimées, made use of the same woodcut on the cover page (see Figure 3.6). Given the topical focus of these volumes (despite the title of the second), this image offers a striking visual depiction of the harsh affects of the songs of the previous generation: as sound impacts the listener, his face contorts fiercely. It may be that a larger proportion of recueils like these printed by Papillon have endured because they were bound together with other such volumes; the survival of ephemera that were never built for longevity, on the other hand, such as the pamphlet “Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz,” and the placard Chanson Pleine de Rejouissance, actually hint at a far heavier tide of production and performance throughout the Wars of Religion. In early modern cities, about 1 in 10,000 print copies of ephemera (pamphlets, placards, etc) has survived.439 This situation may, in fact, have been exaggerated in France, as, in establishing his reign, Henry IV demanded the destruction of all polemical printed materials relating to the wars – most especially any published in favor of the League. This destruction was a form of censorship, of course, since much of the pro-League polemic had been launched against Henry de Navarre (the eventual Henry IV). The 437 438 439 Dissatisfaction with the League had been developing since at least 1591, as they enforced ever-greater taxation in order to pay for city protections, and finance the wars. On September 18, 1593, with rumors circulating that the Duke de Nemours (the League-appointed protector) was going to abandon Lyon while the city awaited an immanent attack from royalist forces, people barricaded the streets, and arrested Nemours’ forces. See Hartley, “War and Tolerance,” 116. For example, Le Recueil des Plus Belles Chansons (Lyon: Papillon, 1596) features the celebratory entry song “Qui veut ouyr Chanson. Chanson nouvelle de l’entree du Roy à Lyon, Et se chante sur le chant, O quil est oblieux que se fiet a fortune,” as well as the song based on an invective timbre against the League, “Chanson nouvelle, en complainte d’un amant, Sur le chant, Fy de la Ligue & de son nom, &c.” Tessa Watt gives this approximate survival rate for sixteenth century English ballads in Cheap Print and Popular Piety, 1550-1640 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 141. The statistics may be even starker in France, where there was never the same antiquarian enthusiasm for broadside collection witnessed in England. 147 result has been a vast reduction of what would already have been sparse remnants of the hateful propaganda of the 1570s to the 1590s. Figure 3.6: La Fleur de Toutes les Plus Belles Chansons (1596) Affective Tropic Media Examining select songs of war, historian Tatiana Debaggi Baranova has recently argued that chansons nouvelles presented the same rhetoric and claims as the broader network of polemical ephemera, but in an extremely simplified medium. She has demonstrated how song 148 polemic addressed the same issues as explanatory pamphlets, like Discours, but that songs necessarily eschewed abstract argument in order to key into core propagandistic points (for example, songs celebrated only the victories of battles, instead of discussing the struggles).440 I would argue that, as a result, these chansons nouvelles targeted emotion, rather than intellect. Such caustic songs did not call upon people to consider rational positions, but rather, to excite their passions – and often intertextually and bodily, through timbres that summoned affective memories. These songs surely circulated amongst a broad public, in contrast to what David Hartley has argued for polemic printed in Lyon during the Wars of Religion. In an otherwise informative monograph, Hartley claimed that such materials were written by elites and for elites – though he neglects to take cognizance of the genre of the chanson nouvelle. This omission speaks to his emphasis on literate means of receiving polemic – a priority which neither accounts for reading practices that were still largely oral (read to and with groups), nor attends to the spread of polemic via popular song. The content of musical polemic in France basically followed the rhetorical shifts that have been traced out by Luc Racaut and David Hartley, among others: Protestant songs tended to glorify martyrdom in the 1550s, before exhibiting greater militancy in the 1560s. During the same period, Catholic printed propaganda finally started to pick up, and musical practice began to push the same issues as polemic more generally – addressing a world turned upside down, the plague of the heretics, Calvin’s seduction of the “simple people,” etc. Similarly, these songs musically celebrated the “victories” of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, and the League’s success with the murder of Henry III – themes that directed the terms of Catholic invective more broadly. C. A. Mayers’ 1977 review of Pineaux’s facsimile of the Désiré Contrepoison (the volume with which I began) states: “Désiré’s Contrepoison is little more than an unpleasant curio from the time of the religious wars. There seems therefore not the slightest justification for producing an edition of this nasty and stupid piece of writing.”441 I would argue that its “nasty and stupid,” or at least facile qualities, are precisely why we should study these sort of volumes – for they represent a kind of propaganda that was easily propagated. The language of this polemic might be unsavory, and the tunes themselves simple, but both of these characteristics served the purposes of spreading ideological hatred and inciting violent passions well. In the case of the Contrepoison, its presentation in music was its combative raison-d’être. While its aim was to sully or at least desacralize this music, it seems that the function of polemical chansons nouvelles was more frequently to capitalize on the existing connotations of the old songs. Basing polemic on already familiar music not only allowed for these ideas to be efficiently disseminated, it also allowed for the emotions that they harnessed to rub up against those of the “new songs,” such that they added affective surplus value, intensifying tensions that were already on the cusp of eruption. 440 441 This is asserted briefly in Baranova, À Coups des Libelles, 229-241. The same material is slightly elaborated upon in her chapter “Les batailles en chanson: le cas du Beau recueil de belles chansons spirituelles de Christophe de Bordeaux,” in Le bruit des armes. C.A. Mayer, “Reviews: Artus Désiré: Le Contrepoison des Cinquante-deux Chansons de Clément Marot. Facsimilé de l’édition de Paris, 1560, avec introduction et notes par Jacques Pineaux,” French Studies 34 (1981): 432. 149 Chapter Four: Musically Marking the Subject: Fear, Contagion, and Lyon’s Processions of the Poor Clamour and Laments In 1531, the humanist cleric Jean de Vauzelles gave a lengthy sermon to the city notables of Lyon, pleading with them to continue their recently implemented Aumône Générale (General Alms), an institution that had been established in the midst of the extreme famine of the same year. In his account of the suffering that the Aumône had alleviated, Vauzelles described the starving poor as bodies dug up from their graves “running here and there through the churches, the streets, and cross-roads uttering such lamentations day and night that all you can hear is ‘I’m dying of hunger, I’m dying of hunger’ – which was such a pitiable thing to hear.”442 Vauzelle’s side eventually won, and the Aumône was permanently established in 1534, providing food and funds for the poor, as per the restrictions and qualifications decided upon by its rectors. A review of the records of the Aumône for the better part of the next century, however, shows that bellyaching about the tiresome noise of the poor persisted. In 1573 the city council of Lyon reprimanded the Aumône because “[...] daily, and even for the better part of the night, infinite poor go through the streets, screaming loudly, which is such an odious thing to hear, given that the better part of these [poor] do this more out of malice than necessity.”443 And in January of 1591 the nobleman and city councillor, Claude Poculot, made an appearance at the Sunday meeting of the Aumône to express the people’s agitation at the huge number of poor in the city “who scream night and day.”444 These complaints voice more than the annoyance of elites with the clamor of the poor – though the “problem” of the noise and chaos they brought to the city remained a major issue throughout the sixteenth century. Such grievances also speak to the ways in which the poor were repeatedly figured in public discourse and the ways in which city notables sought to deal with them – both out of humanitarian concern and because of the irritation of the privileged. The city council’s 1573 description of the poor’s “opportunistic” cries of hunger points to a broader 442 443 444 [Jean de Vauzelles], Police Subsidiaire a celle quasi infinie multitude des povres survenuz a Lyo[n] sur le Rosne lan Mil cinq ce[n]s xxxi. Avec les Graces que les Povres enre[n]de[n]t a Dieu et a messieurs de Leglise aulx notables de la Ville. Le tout fort exemplaire pour toutes aultres Citez. Dirigee a honneste ho[m]me Jehan Baril marcha[n]t de Tholoze pour la co[m]muniquer aulx habita[n]s dicelle. Dung vray zelle (Lyon: vend Claude Nourry, [1531]), 6, “Courans ca & la par les Eglises, rues & carrefours menoyent tells lamentations jour & nuict que vous neussiez ouy que je meurs de fain, je meurs de fain qui estoit piteuse chose a ouyr.” All translations of the Police Subsidiaire are my own. On the Police Subsidiaire having been a sermon see Davis, Society and Culture, 279. AM ACh E12, fol. 548, “[...] journellement, et mesmes la plus grand partie de la nuict, infinité de paovres vont par les rues, faisant grandes exclamations, qui est chose odieuse à entendre, combien que la plus grand partie d’iceulx le fassent plutost par la malice que par nécessité.” All AM ACh translations are my own. AM E26, fol. 69 r., “La grande quantité de paovres qu’il y a présentement en ceste ville, qui crient nuict et jour.” In response to Poculot, the rectors declared that they would do their duty and have the ordinances of the Aumône – which included the threat of imprisonment for begging – proclaimed again in public. Notably, Poculot had also served as rector of the Aumône in 1576 and as treasurer in 1580. For a list of the rectors and administrators of the Aumône, see Catalogue des noms des Messieurs les Recteurs et Administrateurs de l’Hôpital général de la Charité & Aumône générale de Lyon, depuis son institution (Lyon: L’imprimeri D’Aime Delaroche, seul Imprimeur de l’Hôpital général de la Charité & Aumône générale de Lyon, 1742). Poculot appears on 25-27. 150 judgement that poverty stemmed from laziness and lack of moral fortitude rather than any sort of systemic or circumstantial adversity (a perspective that has continued to the present day in much of Europe and North America).445 Of course, the beneficiaries of the Aumône Générale came from more diverse social backgrounds than those targeted by such complaints. As Natalie Zemon Davis has shown, those on the rolls were not limited to the poor whose moaning voices echoed across the city at night, but also frequently included artisans of low-to-middling income who had fallen on hard times.446 Particularly during the economic calamities of the Wars of Religion, many artisans steered a tenuous course between independent subsistence and dependent poverty. As we will see, despite these actual social differences, the poor recipients of the Aumône in Lyon were spectacularly presented as a collective mass by the very protocols of the institution. For beginning with the permanent establishment of the Aumône Générale in 1534, recipients were required to participate in an enormous procession every year that sent supplicatory song ringing through the streets of Lyon. If recipients of the Aumône did not process, they were struck from the rolls. The famine of 1531 caused unprecedented numbers of starving peasants to descend upon Lyon, swarming the city with beggars; but the Aumône’s processions would produce an enduring impression of the city’s “infinite” throngs of paupers. In 1539, the humanist printer Sebastien Gryphius published the Aumône’s ordinances in the Police de l’aumosne in Lyon, so that other cities could follow the example of Lyon’s successful civic general alms.447 The print lays out the entire structure of the Aumône, elaborating both the roles of those running the institution, as well as the behaviors expected of the recipients. Eight rectors presided over the general governance of the Aumône, including admittance onto the rolls, which occurred during weekly Sunday meetings at Saint Bonaventure Church (attached to the Cordeliers convent); a secretary, a solicitor and a clerk ordered the bureaucratic processes; and the alms giver (in charge of distribution on Sundays), as well as a miller, a baker, and four beadles carried out the most pragmatic duties. The beadles (generally a term used for a policing figure in the church) had a particularly hands-on role in the Aumône: they ensured that the poor conformed to the ordinances in all of their public actions. The foremost duty of the beadles was to surveil the entire city, especially the churches, and prohibit people from public begging;448 according to the ordinances, anyone caught begging against the orders of the Aumône was imprisoned in the tower which was erected “for this purpose.”449 The beadles were also tasked with keeping the poor in order at the weekly Aumône handout at Saint 445 446 447 448 449 Foucault also famously claimed that such perspectives were integral to the seventeenth century Hôpitaux in “The Great Confinement,” in Madness and Civilization: a history of insanity in the age of reason (New York: Random House, 1965). In a contemporary vein, one might refer to a segment from Jon Stewart’s critical political comedy television program The Daily Show from May 14, 2015 called “Did you even try to research this?” that analyzes Fox News’ denial of their own rhetoric surrounding the poor in America as “lazy, sponges, and leeches.” Loïc Wacquant also examines the penalization of poverty in the United States in Punishing the Poor: the Neoliberal Government of Social Insecurity (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2009). Davis, Society and Culture, 23. La Police de l’Aulmosne de Lyon (Lyon: Sebastien Gryphius, 1539). This was even more directly stated in the Police Subsidiaire, noted above, whose title page claimed that the “whole thing offers a strong example for other cities.” Church doorsteps were traditional places to ask for alms; it would seem that the Aumône was never successful at eradicated begging in front of churches, as directives to the beadles to pursue such beggars continue throughout the century. The Cathedral Saint Jean remains a hub for panhandling in Lyon. Police de l’aumosne, 40. 151 Bonaventure Church, as well as keeping them in line during the yearly general processions of the poor.450 The Aumône Générale also oversaw two orphanages, the Hôpital La Chana[l], for orphaned boys, and the Hôpital Sainte Catherine, for orphaned girls. The Hôtel-Dieu, the general hospital for the care of the (potentially) remediably ill had been governed by the city council since the late fifteenth century, but it also housed foundlings until the age of seven, or as accounts from the Aumône put it, “until they could dress themselves.”451 According to the Police de l’aumosne, the two orphan Hôpitaux not only sheltered and fed the children, they also aimed to educate them in manners suited to their gender. For La Chana, a schoolmaster was hired to “teach the poor orphan [boys] how to read, write, and all other good manners that we can and should teach young children.”452 For the girls in Sainte Catherine, a schoolmistress was hired to “teach the poor orphan girls their faith, how to spin, how to sew, how to wind silk […] and all other good skills necessary for servant women.”453 As was frequently the case in the humanist expansion of education, training beyond professional skills for basic labor was restricted to the boys.454 These orphans were also made to participate in the general processions of the poor, the grand public solicitation for charity that purportedly took place only once per year.455 The ordinances describe the typical form this took: In order to publicly display to the people the poverty and serious quotidian burdens that the Aumône [has to deal with], and [to show] how they make use of and distribute charitable donations, [and] to encourage ever greater interest in giving to the Aumône, [such that we] may continue in [our] resolve and great charity, the rectors have ordered that once a year, solely during the Easter fair, the fair which sees the greatest throng of people in Lyon, not only from within the kingdom, but also from foreign countries, a general procession of the poor [shall be held], not only of the orphans, but also the other recipients of the Aumône [...] After everyone has assembled at the Saint Bonaventure Convent, the four beadles will [make sure that] everyone is ordered for the procession. First march the four criers of the confraternities ringing their bells. After [them marches] one of the poor orphans bearing a large wooden cross, or crucifix [...] all of the other [orphans follow behind] two by two with their schoolmaster; and they all [march] across the city while singing FILI DEI MISERERE NOBIS. The girl orphans march afterwards with their mistress, following a similar order, singing, SANCTA MARIA MERE DE JESU PRIEZ POUR NOUS. And following them, all of 450 451 452 453 454 455 Ibid. AM ACh E13, fol. 52 (April 25, 1574). Police de l’aumosne, 41. Ibid. Some humanistic public schools did open their doors to female students – though these girls typically only followed the most elementary abécédaire classes. George Huppert has declared that such patterns continued into the twentieth century: “The primaire served everyone, even the poor, the rural, the female. The secondaire served an urban, wealthy, male élite until 1918.” Public Schools in Renaissance France (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1984), x. Police de l’Aulmosne, 40-41. 152 theother poor men and women [march behind], reciting their hours and praying for their benefactors. After them [march] the four mendicant orders in their normal rank and order, singing the litany. And following them march the gentlemen of the law, the councillors and aldermen, the rectors and officers, and all devoted people [who may] escort and follow the procession.456 A number of features about this description are striking, but for now let us turn to one issue that was key to all sixteenth-century processions and clearly an overriding concern for the Aumône in general: order. Like most ideal descriptions of official processions, this general procession of the poor was carefully ordered. The announcement of the coming procession was marked sonically, beginning with the confraternities’ bells, followed by the orphans in pairs from the Aumône’s hopitaux, all of the poor, the four mendicant orders, the city notables in hierarchal sequence, and finally the devout supporters among the city’s broader populace. Like many descriptions from the sixteenth century of royal entries, this official description neglected to account for the incredible ruckus that overwhelmed the streets during these general processions of the poor. For although the mass of recipients from the Aumône’s rolls was mentioned only in passing, “all of the other poor men and women” comprised the bulk of this parade, which was generally about 3,000 to 4,500 strong.457 Despite being the economic focus of the Aumône’s work and the most substantial body in the procession, “all of the other poor men and women” received little attention in this ideal presentation precisely because they were so disorderly. Music features strongly in this idealized depiction of order, of course, starting from the confraternities’ bell ringing; singing litanies and prayers also helped to metrically regulate each group as they marched. Notably, despite being a “secular” institution, the musical practices signaled in the ordinances were informed by the Catholic belief-system that stood behind the foundation of the Aumône.458 For instance, the participants of the general procession of the poor 456 457 458 Police de l’Aulmosne, 40-43, “Pour monstre publicquement au peuple la pauvreté, & les gra[n]s charges ordinaires de l’aulmosne, & comment ses biens faictz sont emploiez & distribuez, pour tousjours luy donner meilleur vouloir de continuer sa bonne volente & grande charite. A este ordonné par lesdictz Recteurs qu’il se fera une foiz lannee, & par chescune foyre de Pasques seulement, qu’est la foyre ou se treuve plus grande assemblée de gens a Lyon, tant de ce Royaulme, que d’autres pays estranges, une procession generale de tous les pauvres, tant orphelins que autres recepva[n]s bie[n]s faictz & nourriture ordinaire tout le long de lannée de ladicte aulmosne [...] Apres que cahscun [sic] s’est assemble audict convent de sainct Bonaventure, les quatre bedeaux dressent l’ordre de la procession. Et sont premiereme[n]t marcher les quatre crieurs des confreries sonnans clochetes. Apres l’ung des pauvres orphelins portant une grand croyx de boys, ou pend ung crucifix de mesmes, & tous les autres deux a deux avec leur maistre descholle: & vont chantans tout le long de la ville, FILI DEI MISERERE NOBIS. Les filles avecques leur maistresse marchent apres en ordre semblable, chantans, SANCTA MARIA MERE DE JESUS PRIEZ POUR NOUS. Et consequement tous les autres pauves hommes & femmes, en disant leur heures, & pryant pour leurs biensfacteurs. Apres sont les quatre mendians, en leur renc & ordre acoustume qui chantent la letanye. Et a leur suytte marchent messieurs de la Justice, les Conseilliers & Eschevins, les Recteurs, leurs officiers & tous ceulx qui ont devotion a conduyre & acompaigner ladicte procession.” These statistics are derived from Davis, Society and Culture, 62. Statistics are also given in the AM ACh, in accounting for the distribution of alms at the general processions. In 1558, for instance, they state that 3 sous were given to 4175 poor, while in 1559, they state that 3 sous again were given to 4061 poor. AM ACh E9, fol. 129, and AM ACh E9, fol. 300. In 1561, however, 3 sous were given out to 4488 poor. AM ACh E10, fol. 82. Natalie Zemon Davis briefly references this Catholic quality of the Aumône’s general procession of the poor: “But the laity of Lyon had come to believe that the Aumône Générale was a genuine expression of charity. For the Catholic layman, this sense was facilitated by certain Catholic features of the institution. For instance, every 153 paraded singing Catholic songs – including litanies to Mary and the saints – that were anathema to Protestants. Refuting previous historical work, Natalie Zemon Davis has shown that the protosocial welfare programs that emerged in many growing cities in the form of general civic alms were by no means only Protestant in form or aim.459 Indeed, although Protestants contributed greatly to the operation and maintenance of Lyon’s Aumône in its early years, its public expressions of supplication took Catholic forms, as did the theological bases by which it heralded charity. The general processions, amongst other obligatory actions, functioned to publicly display the poor’s position within a Catholic economy of faith; for, according to Catholic precepts, the poor had a special supplicatory connection to Christ. And while the ordinances claimed that the general processions of the poor only took place once per year, as we will see, the poor were also deployed in processions during moments of grave crisis – particularly severe religious crises. Much like various forms of religious procession, the general processions of the poor in Lyon were seen as a way of spiritually cleansing the city. However, the bodily presence of the poor parading through the city streets in order to enact this purification was at odds with a concomitant desire to remove them from urban space. This was an issue that was foregrounded by humanists like Vauzelle, who wrote that cities like Lyon should strive for an ideal beauty, free from the stench, ugliness, and the clamor of suffering. Furthermore, the concept of cleansing the city through the processional supplication of the poor was in conflict with affective rhetoric that would eventually connect the blight of the poor on city streets with the infection of the Protestants in the body social of Lyon. This chapter thus explores how the Aumône Générale made use of spectacular demonstrations that were familiar within the Catholic spiritual economy, marshaling aspects of urban life that would have had currency with Lyonnais, as well as foreign observers. I will contextualize the reception of the general processions of the poor by considering them in relation to other processional practices that developed across the century. Moreover, I will demonstrate how the poor processions, as a public form of subjection, differed from these other displays by marking the poor in ways that would be key to their eventual confinement. Beyond these Lyonnais recipients of the alms, an important public presentation of the Aumône Générale’s charitable work was performed by its orphans, whose musical and affective roles I will also examine. Finally, I will turn to the imbrication of affective rhetoric about Protestants with that of the infection of pauperism in order to show how the conflation of “poverty” and “heresy” eventually helped to silence the great mass of Lyon’s poor. 459 year at Easter there was an enormous Procession of the Poor.” Society and Culture, 56. Her inspiring work on the Aumône has obviously been foundational to my study. She contends, however, that the Aumône’s charitable character remained surprisingly “indifferent” to religion and argues that both Protestants and Catholics donated to the institution throughout the century. The examples that she gives in order to demonstrate this longevity, however, are mostly from around 1564, and one from 1571 as the latest instance. As she demonstrates in other essays, the political-religious climate shifted by the late 1560s towards increasingly ultra-Catholic regimes of power. The Catholic character of the Aumône’s processions would have resonated deeply within the increasing number of public penitential processions, as I will elaborate below. See the chapter “Poor Relief, Humanism and Heresy” in Davis, Society and Culture. 154 Affectively Marking Territory Processions in sixteenth-century Lyon took varied forms that might be acted out by individuals or groups from across many different social strata. Despite this spectrum, all of these processions were activated through music, and their affective goals overlapped, oriented as they were to particular cityscapes: they aimed to mark out territory, to perform relationships, and to trigger referential memories. In order to glean some sense of how this familiar mode of spectacular marking would have been integral to the religious-political positioning of the Aumône Générale, I will explore a few of the most pertinent kinds of processions that took place across the century in Lyon; through this, I will show how the poor processions engaged with key processional forms and materials that were vital to staking out political and religious territorial claims in early modern Lyon. • Royal Entries The most pompous and glorious processions were royal and noble entries, several of which were memorialized in detailed printed descriptions. As Margaret McGowan has shown, by the 1530s pamphlets that recounted these entries had become a literary genre aimed more at disseminating an ideal form than actually recording the entire process: “it would seem that the motives for publishing accounts of royal entries had as much to do with the reputation of the author and inventor as with that of the city. Writers seized the opportunity to display their ingenuity and erudition and, in this regard, strayed from simple representation of the event.”460 One of the first in this Renaissance genre in France was printed in Lyon, written for the Queen’s and the dauphin’s entry into the city in 1533 by none other than the Aumône’s champion, Jean de Vauzelles.461 A major issue at stake in the entry pamphlets was representation. The goal was to memorialize the king’s presence in the city, but as McGowan argues, the king’s position as the holy and sovereign body of the nation made this representation challenging, if not inimitable.462 Pamphlet writers therefore attempted to draw the reader’s attention to details of the entry that, in the moment, could not have been experienced. For example, they often presented the spectacle in the sequence in which the king or dignitary would have progressed through it, when, in reality, this would have been an inaccessible perspective.463 Texts could also go beyond what any 460 461 462 463 McGowan, “The Status of the Printed Text,” in French Ceremonial Entries in the Sixteenth Century: Event, Image, Text, eds. Hélène Visentin and Nicolas Russell (Toronto: Center for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, 2007), 38. This print practice co-existed with a tradition of recounting the grandeur of these events in manuscript. The full title of the publication is Entrée de la Royne faicte en lantique et noble ville de Lyo[n] lan Mile cinq cens trente et troys le xxvij. de may (Lyon: Jean Crespin, 1533). As in all of his publications, Vauzelles’ name does not appear, but his authorship is rather signaled by his device. Interestingly, this was printed in Lyon by Jean Crespin, the eventual printer of the Livre des Martyrs explored in Chapter Two. William Kemp points out that one of the most innovative aspects of Vauzelle’s entry booklets is the iconography, as they represent the first attempt at visually depicting the structures and displays from the entries. Kemp, “Transformations in the Printing of Royal Entries,” 127. McGowan, “The Status of the Printed Text,” 49. Ibid., 29. 155 spectator could have witnessed at such processions by including descriptions of features that were not visible, such as Pierre Matthieu’s elaboration of the sixty-five-foot-high column that Henry IV encountered at the end of his 1595 entry into Lyon, depicting “the most remarkable incidents of the recent troubles.”464 Furthermore, the symbolism of the triumphal arches and other stations were generally so complex that the uninitiated would have been at a loss as to how to interpret them. As Ann Ramsey has demonstrated, however, royal entries began to turn away from this complex Renaissance symbology by the end of the century, and the reasons for this clearly had to do with the socio-political climate at the end of the Wars of Religion. For, in making his entry into Paris in 1594, Henry IV needed to placate a populace that was so ill at ease with this (converted) Protestant king that they perceived his entry as a sign of the apocalypse.465 This entry thus shifted to an emphasis on Catholic rites, drawing on symbols that had become increasingly common in processions of all sorts during the Wars of Religion. Foremost, the entry designed for Henry IV focused on the sacrament of the Eucharist: deliberately extending his presence in Paris into Easter week, Henry IV participated in ceremonies that underscored his commitment to Catholicism and the Catholic epistemology of ritual, wherein rites were understood to transform reality.466 Processions keyed to Eucharistic devotion had been on the rise since 1535, when Francis I called upon churchmen to display the Host for the first time in a procession that took place outside the Feast of Corpus Christi. Intended to cleanse the city, the procession was prompted by the Affaire des Placards of 1534, when Protestant placards had been plastered throughout Paris (and outside Francis I’s bedroom) denouncing the “horrific, gross, and insufferable abuses of the papal Mass.” Francis I processed unadorned, venerating the Host as a simple Christian; the event culminated theatrically in the mass execution of six convicted heretics.467 Henry II also deployed Eucharistic processions as rites of purification, though the practice became the most pronounced with Henry III’s Penitential Confraternities, to which I will turn later in this chapter. The enlistment of communal Catholic rituals in the service of royal ceremonial became ever more exaggerated as confessional conflict increased, as Kate van Orden has demonstrated for the cases of Henry III’s ill-received triumphal entries, and Henry IV’s slow but successful coming to power as monarch.468 While the pamphlets commemorating royal entries transmitted both the complex symbology that was actually displayed in the events and the embellishments of effusive Renaissance writers, the entries themselves also featured signs that could be read directly by the population at large. The strategic deployment of the Te Deum in royal ceremonies would have carried significance for a broad public because of the chant’s role in civic and sacred festivities. Moreover, cannon fire, and feux de joye that were lit across city districts were a common signal 464 465 466 467 468 Pierre Matthieu, quoted in Ibid., 37, “Les plus remarkable accidens de ces dernières troubles.” Translation mine. Ann Ramsey, “Ritual Meaning in Henry IV’s 1594 Parisian Entry,” in French Ceremonial Entries, 194-96. Ibid., 198-200. Diefendorf focuses on this procession for its symbolic importance, as the first procession in which the Host was carried outside of Corpus Christi. Beneath the Cross, 46-47. The theatre of martyrdom should also be attended to as the termination of this event, however, as it physically cleansed the city of heresy by burning the bodies of the accused. As I explored in Chapter Two, such executions were not passively witnessed by crowds; and if people were not satisfied with the ritual cleansing process, they would take such proceedings into their own hands. See Chapter Four, “The Cross and the Sword,” in Kate van Orden, Music, discipline, and arms in early modern France (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2005). 156 used to fire up communities for celebration. Notably, the Lyonnais diarist Guéraud payed great attention to the fires and cannons on the left side of the Saône that marked the end of the general procession of the poor in 1555469; according to Guéraud, this terminal point of a procession of 4000 poor made use of the popular celebratory gestures that Henry III’s Te Deum ceremonies would co-opt for the purpose of royal aggrandizement. After the procession, [...] the Governor, accompanied by [a cortège], set a fire in front of the Cordeliers [Church], in [the form of] a feu de joye that the Germans had made in figures of harpies, with a Pluto in the middle, and twelve or fourteen little casks on pedestals appearing like columns, also aflame [...] and in the middle of the columns was a triangular fire [...] The next day [...] Paullin Benedict, a Luccese [whose] house is on the Fourvière mountain [...] displayed a flaming form of a salamander [...] the entire Fourvière mountain seemed veritably aflame [...] with a crown of ardent fire.470 • Established Sacred Orders The Catholic symbolism deployed in royal entries during the Wars of Religion also drew on processional forms that were meaningful to the menu peuple from civic and parish rituals. Some of the most powerful means of marking sacred territory were the established processions of the church calendar, particularly the processions for Corpus Christi, Holy Week, and Rogation Days. As noted in Chapter One, the Corpus Christi procession became a flash point for violent conflicts in Lyon and elsewhere as confessional tensions heightened, predominantly owing to its public veneration of a sacrament acknowledged by Catholics but not Protestants: the real presence in the Host. Indeed, Guéraud’s diary refers with contempt to attacks on Corpus Christi processions, including the 1561 clash that ended in the murder of Barthélemy Aneau, the principal of the Collège de la Trinité.471 Additional Corpus Christi processions were ordered during the Wars of Religion in Lyon, in fact, as a militant means of reclaiming urban space for Catholicism. On the octave of Corpus Christi in 1561, for instance, the Governor of Lyon ordered the procession to be re-staged with the “precious body of the Lord [surrounded by] the Governor, Seneschal, and several armed gentlemen of justice, as well as the city musketeers guarding both front and rear.”472 Such armed Corpus Christi processions are cited as early as 1546 by Guéraud, when the city-wide procession was guarded by the Lieutenant General, 469 470 471 472 Guéraud describes the poor procession in Tricou, La Chronique Lyonnaise, 113. Ibid., 113-114, “[...] led. Sr Gouverneur, accompagné comme dessus, alla mettre le feu devant les cordeillers en un feu de joye qu’avoient faict faire les Allemands faict en forme d’harpies et un Pluton au milieu et au tour avoit douze ou quatorze petit tonneaulx sur des pillonnes faicts en manière de colompnes tout plaints de feu et de fusées et au millieu des colompnes estoit led. feu faict en triancle [...] Le landemain Paullin Benedict lucquoys en sa maison à la montaigne de fourvière [...] feist de grands flambeaux et feist dresser une salmandre qui estoit toutte en feu [...] quasi toutte la montagne de Fourvyère et sembloit au clouchyer de Confort que ce fust une coronne de feu toute ardente.” Guéraud in Tricou, La Chronique Lyonnaise, 133. See also my deeper exploration of this murder in Chapter One. Ibid., 135, “le prétieux Corps de Dieu où assistarent Mrs les Gouverneur, Seneschal et plusieurs gentihommes avec la justice en armes et les arquebusiers de la ville aussy en armes faisant avant garde et arrière guarde.” 157 Maugiron, accompanied by the city musketeers in case they should encounter “heretics and bad people who want to deliberately seize the precious body of Jesus Christ from the hands of the priest.”473 Much like the order of entries, the sacrality of ordinem was integral to ritual; without order, ritual would not function. This was demonstrated in particular by the Rogation Day processions, probably the most popular religious celebration in Lyon. While these processions were supposed to include only the clergy, the policing commands given by the canon-counts of Saint Jean make clear that the procession sites swarmed with citizens eager to participate.474 Out of fear that citizens would disrupt the sacred order, the clergy had a number of beadles stationed to beat back the crowd with sticks. The route of the Rogation Day processions was integral to a specifically Lyonnais sense of the festival – a fact which must have spurred on enthusiasm for Rogation Days in the city. For, over three days, these processions mapped out key spaces that were historically connected to Lyon’s Christian martyrs of 177, marking memorial points with musical ritual. The first and second days of the Rogation processions encircled the left side of the Saône, the Cathedral of Saint Jean and Fourvière hill, returning by boat down the Saône river on the second day; on the third day, the Rogation processions moved across the Saône bridge and over to the commercial quarter of rue Mercière. Specific ritual chants were sung at each station and with each transition between sites; through these routes and rites, the procession delineated the limits of the city, sanctifying civic space. The territory and sites that were visited fortified a Lyonnais consciousness about religious history – one which occupied spaces that many inhabitants moved through everyday. The first two days focused on the loci of the ancient Christian Church of Lyon, notably extending to the extremes of the city borders, to Saint-Pierre-de-Vaise, traditionally held as the site where the fourty-eight martyrs of 177, including Saint Épipoy, Saint Alexandre, and Sainte Blandine, were arrested. The Christian identity of Lyon was rooted in the story of these martyrs, and their mythological history was constantly referenced through important physical markers, just as the remnants of the Roman civilization were prominently visible in the city. Though the excavation of sites did not begin until the nineteenth century, columns from the Amphithéâtre des Trois Gaules on the right side of the Saône – known as the site of Blandine’s martyrdom – were depicted on sixteenth-century maps.475 The legacy of these martyrs extended more fully into the naming of city space, for as tradition had it, the blood of the martyrs rushed down from the Croix des Décollez (literally, Cross of the Beheaded), via the Montée Gourguillon (from the Latin gurges, or torrent), into the Saône. Lyonnais legend recalls that the Saône was thus named for the blood of the martyrs, adapted from its Latin name Arar, to Sangona, derived from sanguis, or blood.476 Significantly, in Lyon, the martyrs of the “primitive” Christian Church became increasingly cited by polemicists and, if it was possible, ever more revered as 473 474 475 476 Ibid., 39-40, “hereticques et gens malheureux qui avoient delibéré oster le précieux corps de Jesus Christ des mains du prebstre.” See also the relevant discussion of Rogation Day processions and polemic chansons nouvelles in Chapter Three. The Amphithéâtre des Trois Gaules, as well as the enormous Amphithéâtre Gallo-Romain are now imposing structures in the city (particularly the latter), since their excavation in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Lyonnais residents from diverse religious and political backgrounds today will still inform visitors about the site of Blandine’s martyrdom in particular. Collomb, “Les Processions des Rogations à Lyon,” 69-94. Natalie Zemon Davis also characterizes Rogation Day processions as “link[ing] parts of the city” in “The Sacred and the Body Social in Sixteenth-Century Lyon,” Past and Present 90 (1981): 40-70 at 57. 158 confessional conflicts continued. The popularity of Rogation Day processions in Lyon was no doubt related to their ritualistic marking of sites connected to these foundational martyrs; such memorialized locations were actively re-inscribed in the hostile present, and their meanings could be harnessed in the service of Catholic militancy as the Wars of Religion escalated. • Masking and Whipping (Confraternities in Penitence) In the second half of the century, Corpus Christi and Rogation Day processions continued to be eagerly attended in Lyon; yet as the threat of Protestant infection in the communal body social loomed, the potential ritual inefficacy of the processions began to become apparent. Rather than abandoning rites, Catholics met this mounting feeling of ritual crisis with more ardent practice. By the 1570s, a type of organization started to pop up across France to address this conflict: the penitential confraternity. One of the first of these confraternities, the White Penitents of Confalon, was developed in 1577 by Émond Auger, along with the Bishop of Lyon, Jacques Maistret, and the influential Lyonnais merchant, Justinien Pense; and when Henry III started up his famous penitential confraternities, he initially modeled them on Lyon’s White Penitents.477 The public actions performed by these confraternities had been part of life in Europe since the medieval period, particularly the practice of self-flagellation that had erupted in waves of popular penitence from the thirteenth through fifteenth centuries.478 By parading through the streets while singing litanies to Mary and the Saints, penitential processions aimed to cleanse urban space, and with it, the body social. Most of the penitential processions also involved, logically, visible actions of penitence and self-debasement. Penitents effaced their social stations by dressing in a cagoule (a sack with a hood that covered their bodies and faces) and they carried whips and flagellated themselves, publicly mortifying the flesh.479 But, unlike medieval 477 478 479 As Jeanice Brooks has shown, Justinien Pense (or Panse) was also a patron of music who commissioned the Antwerp composer Jean de Castro in the early stages of his career to compose pieces based largely on Pense’s poetry about his family and friends in Lyon. See Jeanice Brooks, “Jean de Castro, the Pense Partbooks and Musical Culture in Sixteenth-Century Lyon,” Early Music History 11 (1992): 91-149. The White Penitents that Pense was instrumental in developing was an elite group of wealthy Lyonnais; Pense’s musical engagements here are telling, however, because, like Henry III’s courtly penitents who sang in fauxbourdon, the White Penitents of Lyon likely processed while singing litanies and antiphons in polyphony. For a studies of Henry III’s penitential processions, see in particular, Frances Yates, “Dramatic Religious Procession in Paris in the Late Sixteenth Century,” Annales Musicologiques 2 (1954): 215-80; and Kate van Orden’s chapter “The Cross and the Sword” in Music, Discipline and Arms. Pense moved to Paris in 1580 when his family business went bankrupt; he became attached to Henry III’s court and helped to found the king’s penitential Congrégation de l’Oratoire de Notre Dame de Vie Saine, and the Confrérie de la mort et Passion de Notre Seigneur Jésus Christ. See Brooks, “Jean de Castro,” 128. On Pense and Castro see also Jeanice Brooks, “Music by Jean de Castro in the Parisian Library of Justinien Pense,” Revue de Musicologie 50 (1996): 25-34. Niklaus Largier has opened up wider inquiry on flagellation, the senses, and arousal. From the eleventh century self-flagellant Benedictine hermit Peter Damian, to modern pornography, whether it has been spiritually or erotically motivated, voluntary whipping is “always bound up with an unfettering of the imagination and with a corresponding intensification of experience.” Niklaus Largier, In Praise of the Whip: A Cultural History of Arousal (New York: Zone Books, 2007), 31. The display of social rank via one’s garb was governed by sumptuary laws that dictated what people could and could not wear. The cagoule disturbed and shocked many people – no doubt, in part, because it effaced all human regard; it was derided, particularly with Henry III’s penitential processions in Paris as a kind of carnival 159 flagellants, who whipped themselves into a bloody, deathly fury, late sixteenth-century penitential processions were generally more orderly affairs, where self-abnegation was exhibited with solemnity. These processions were only so self-abnegating, however, for they were, in point of fact, ephemeral. The participants donned the anonymous frocks and took on their role as penitents only for the period of the procession, returning to their socio-economic position in the community when it was all over.480 As Schneider contends, the processions had a theatrical quality related to the popular topsy-turvy practice of masking; but the cagoule itself was also connected to death, as confrères donned it to charitably attend executions and as their own death shroud.481 Reminders of death and separation from the world were key to the penitential procession; even more integral, however, was the confirmation of the efficacy of penance – showing that such ritual could have an impact on the world.482 Such demonstrations became a bellicose display of Catholic faith, particularly as they were adopted and deployed by the Holy Catholic League in the 1580s. As Protestants and Catholics vied for sacred territory in what were supposedly “secular” city spaces, the very emphasis on procession within Catholic ritual helped to secure their dominance. Amanda Eurich has argued that official policies could define neutral areas, but with Catholic devotional practice such as Corpus Christi, “fixed, holy sites of the Catholic community expanded into the neutral spaces of the city, transforming the streets, squares and structures around them into ‘virtual’ churches, visible manifestations of the Church triumphant.”483 Even peace edicts that demanded mutual respect for rituals actually favored Catholic methods of marking space, for the rites of the Catholic church calendar necessarily oriented communal practice toward procession. We might recall that the raucous psalm-singing processions of the 1550s in Lyon were aggressively disapproved of by the Protestant elite; the Catholic hierarchy, on the other hand, not only supported, but instigated ritual processions. • Popular Festive Processions (Confraternities at Play) In some senses, Catholic support for communal festivities – including boisterous traditions – may have helped to secure support from various contingents of the general population.484 Confraternities that organized their own celebrations, usually for their patron Saint’s feast day, had long been an active part of medieval life in France, and though there was a 480 481 482 483 484 masking. See Yates, “Dramatic Religious Procession”; and Robert Schneider, “Mortification on Parade: Penitential Processions in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century France,” Renaissance and Reformation/Renaissance et réforme 10 (1986): 123-46. Of course, penitential confraternities did more than organize processions, and they often required commited devotional practice from their brothers. See Schneider, “Mortification on Parade.” The processions were the only time when such anonymity and mortification of the flesh was at play, however. Ibid., 127. Ibid., 132. Amanda Eurich, “Sacralizing Space: Reclaiming Civic Culture in Early Modern France,” in Sacred Space in Early Modern Europe, eds. William Coster and Andrew Spicer (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 272. Philip Hoffman has argued that festive celebrations such as those supported by figures like Rubys “struck at the Achilles heel” of the Protestants, particularly at a moment when the printer’s journeymen had begun to grow disenchanted with their potential roles in the Protestant church. Hoffman, Church and Community, 42. 160 serious decline in membership between 1550 to 1565, Lyon could boast at least sixty confraternities during the sixteenth century.485 Confraternities were often considered an integral part of urban life, a point made by Guéraud, who lambasted a 1561 ordinance (re-)abolishing confraternities.486 In Lyon, confraternities had been banned in 1529, following the rebeyne (a local, organized revolt responding to food shortages), and they were outlawed more broadly by Francis I in 1539; these restrictions were clearly not enforced in Lyon, however, for confraternities continued to play integral roles in many public events. In part, such organizations were themselves a way of coping with periods of economic strife, as they offered assistance to their members when they fell on hard times. As a city teeming with industry (at least for parts of the century), Lyon had dozens of trade-based confraternities whose celebrations performed relationships on a more local municipal level than those articulated in royal entries. The most sensational expression of these relationships manifested in the huge topsy-turvy festive events that were typically put on by confraternities or professional or craft guilds, but could also be organized by informal collectives of friends and family, or, quite often, by what Natalie Zemon Davis has identified as “Abbeys of Misrule.”487 By the sixteenth century, Lyon harbored about twenty Abbeys of Misrule, which were organized separately, but would parade together at feast times; Abbeys could be grouped around professions, but they were more often based around neighborhoods, and stretched across all age groups.488 The great public performances that Abbeys of Misrule put on in some ways flipped the practice of royal entries upside-down by adding a mass charivari on top. The “Chevauchee de l’Asne” as it was called, featured a long parade of various Abbeys, dressed as a group in costumes, often as some kind of stereotyped figure – for example, the “Turks” that the “Mercyere” group outfitted themselves as in 1566. The whole event was theatrical and rowdy, since each group was preceded by a consort of outdoor instruments including fifes and drums, trumpets, shawms, and even bagpipes.489 The monstre (parade) was interspersed with playful sotties or farces in micro, including, of course, ribald popular songs. As we will see, music helped to animate these raucous festivities, while also serving to memorialize them. As with royal processions, these “Chevauchees” were sometimes commemorated in print, and the narratives largely mimic the pompous portrayals of dignitaries’ costumes and order, but in mocking, tongue-in-cheek descriptions. These pamphlets also testify to the policing of Lyonnais interpersonal relations – namely, the ridiculing of husbands who were “lorded over” by 485 486 487 488 489 Davis, “The Sacred and the Body Social,” 51. Guéraud in Tricou, La Chronique Lyonnaise, 137, “XIVe jour d’aoust, fust publiée à son de trompe en ceste ville un malheureux édict et mauldicte ordonnance. Ce fust l’abolition des confrairies et desfence, sur payne d’estre pendu et estranglé sur le champ, qu’on n’eust à tenir table, escripre ou bailler argent ny se trouver plus de six ensemble et que quand aux messes et services divins le Roy le feroit faire à ses propres coust et despens, le tout soubs collusion et mocquerie, au grand contentement des huguenots lesquels commancèrent à mettre en advant que c’estoit dejà commencement de l’abolition de la messe et ne souffit au gentil gouverneur Mr de Savigny d’avoir permis la publication dud. Malheureux edict, ains donna permission de le vendre par la ville, dont ceulx de Genesve, qui estoient icy à la foyre, en feirent des bonnes provisions.” See the chapter “The Reasons of Misrule” in Davis, Society and Culture. Ibid., 110-115. The instrumental selection could also work as part of the characteristic depiction, such as the tambourines and timpani that announced the “compagnie de ceux de Rue Mercyere,” dressed “à la Turque.” Recueil Faict au Vray, de la Chevauchee de l’Asne, faicte en la ville de Lyon: Et commencee le premier jour du moys de Septembre, Mil cinq cens soixante six: Avec tout l’Ordre tenu en icelle. Mulieris bonae, Beatus vir. (Lyon: Guillaume Testefort, [1566]), 24. 161 their wives. As a collective enactment of a charivari, the tail end of most of the Abbeys that paraded in the “Chevauchees”’s 1566 monstre displayed men being beaten by their wives: one throws tripe fricassee in her husband’s face, another hits hers with a wooden fork, while another kicks her husband in the genitals.490 The Chevauchee processions thus acted out community relations on a spectacular scale, while their commemorative pamphlets parodied descriptions of royal entries, as well as articulating the practices that belonged to this world-turned-upside-down. In particular, the 1578 Chevauchee pamphlet, Recueil de la Chevauchee, Faicte en la Ville de Lyon: Le dixseptiesme de Novembre. 1578, ends with a contrafactum titled “Chanson Nouvelle, sur le chant Lentin veux tu savoir comme, Je vis.”491 In little quatrains of seven-syllables lines and alternating feminine/masculine rhymes, like so many of the contrafacta examined in Chapter Three, this chanson nouvelle was simple, catchy, and easy to sing. Full of puns and word play, as the subtitle of the chanson nouvelle itself announces, the song focuses on the “poor patient men [“patiens”] beaten by their wives [...] publicly represented in Lyon, Sunday the 16th of November 1578,” stating, for example: Dés le Samedy trompettes, Flustes, tabourins, clairons, Haubois, violons, sonnettes S’esprouvoyent à plus hauts ton Pour pourmener ce Dimanche Tous ces pauvre tourmentez, Et rompre aux un une hance, Et aux autres les costez492 As of Saturday trumpets, Flutes, drums, bugles Oboes, violins, bells were sounded as loud as could be To drag along this Sunday All of these poor tormented [men], And to beat some of them at the hip, And others in the side In the political-religious environment of Lyon in 1578, as penitential confraternities and their processions were on the rise, the end of this contrafactum is striking for its emphasis on contrition and the tenor of atonement for one’s sins against the community: 490 491 492 Ibid., 22-27. Like theatre of the age, however, these “wives” were almost always played by travestied men. The full title is: Recueil de la Chevauchee, Faicte en la Ville de Lyon: Le dixseptiesme de Novembre. 1578. Avec tout l’Ordre tenu en icelle. Mulieris bonae, beatus vir. (Lyon: Par les Trois Suppost, [1578]). Ibid., C4-D1. 162 Endurez donc la fessee Mes amis, patiemment: La honte est bien tost passee Secouez vous seulement. [...] Mais au fort, la patience Est une rare vertu: Celuy qui fait penitence Onc n’a le coeur abbatu. Suffer the spanking Patiently, my friends: The shame will soon pass Just shake yourselves off. [...] But at the height of it, patience Is a rare virtue: Those who repent Will never have downtrodden hearts. We might say that this contrafactum plays on the “mal-mariée” genre prevalent in the chanson nouvelle repertoire, songs that lamented men dominated by their wives, or young girls who resorted to cuckolding their elderly, impotent husbands. But, in fact, it seems more broadly the case that the “mal-mariée” chanson exemplified the charivari tradition in miniature. This 1578 contrafactum also connects more concretely to the recueils of chansons nouvelles, for the timbre on which this song was based had itself appeared as a chanson nouvelle in Claude Pontoux’s Gelodacrye Amoureuse, a collection printed in Lyon by Benoist Rigaud in 1576, and again in 1596.493 This contrafactum thus suggests that its users were familiar with the recueils of chansons nouvelles examined in Chapter Three; it also points to the playfulness and crossfertilization by which these collections were constituted. Importantly, unlike the rural participants in many charivaris, the Abbeys of Misrule were generally comprised of artisans, a makeup which helps to circumscribe the particular audience base that such recueils (referring to both the chansons nouvelles variety, and the “Chevauchee de l’Asne” prints) would have had in Lyon. The use of a contrafactum to end a commemorative pamphlet also says much about the dissemination of memory in sixteenth-century Lyon, as it employed the oral/aural techniques of song to transmit a summary recollection of events, stories, news and comic narrative. Processions in sixteenth-century Lyon evidently occurred with relative frequency, but 493 This was another example of Benoist Rigaud gleaning material from the prints of others, as the collection was first printed by Nicolas Bonfons in Paris in 1576, and again in 1579. On the Gelodacrye amoureuse, see also van Orden, “Vernacular culture,” 275-76. . 163 they were by no means run-of-the-mill events. In fact, they were momentous enough that many were either noted in diaries of the period, or, as I have shown, memorialized and disseminated through print. These processions marked out the cityscape, both in the ephemeral sense of the event and in the enduring sense in which they revisited pre-extant memory sites – spaces that commonly elicited references to the particulars of Lyonnais history. And this cityscape was the stage upon which the enormous poor processions would perform; the spaces through which the poor processions moved, the forms in which they were commemorated, and, most pervasively, the communal Catholic musical rites that they deployed drew upon the processional practices that were already loaded with meaning in Lyon. The sources upon which my study of poor processions is based demand that we attend to the valence between the accounts that are available. For the most part, information about the poor processions must be gleaned from the Archives of the Aumône Générale itself, an impressive corpus of which survives in the Archives Municipales de Lyon. These archives, of course, record the perspectives of the board of rectors of the Aumône, whose focus in these registers is certainly more financial than experiential. The routes of the processions and the music that they featured need not be fully explained by the archives, however, as they echo broader cultural practices familiar to residents and visitors to the city. Subjection and Supplication Yet, a key difference was at play between the forms of procession that I explored above and the general processions of the poor. All sixteenth century processions took possession of civic space, articulated relationships, and projected identity – but the defining difference between the aforementioned processions and the poor processions involved choice.494 Lyon’s poor were made subjects of the Aumône, and they were thus subjected to the will of its rectors and their policing agents.495 Participation in the poor processions was not optional. From the outset of the Aumône that was instated in 1531, a great debate focused on who the subject would be, who could receive assistance. At the time, the city’s famine had been exacerbated by the arrival of boatloads of starving peasants from the surrounding countryside: “such a multitude of poor descended all of a sudden that you would have said that they were survivors of a shipwreck transported by misfortune.”496 Even after the crisis subsided, as a city whose economy revolved around the trade of its four yearly fairs, Lyon was a destination for migrants. The international commerce from the fairs supported the practice of assorted trades in the city, drawing “foreigners” with varying skill-levels to seek employment in Lyon; most of these migrants came poor, and remained poor.497 The fairs themselves allowed for an influx of 494 495 496 497 The telling exception is the men who were mockingly parade in the “Chevauchee de l’Asne” for their inappropriate household relationships. I draw on Foucault’s notion of subjection, who argues, “rather than worry about the problem of the central spirit, I believe that we must attempt to study the myriad bodies which are constituted as peripheral subjects as a result of the effects of power.” Michel Foucault, “Disciplinary Power and Subjection,” in Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings 1972-1977, ed. Colin Gordon (New York: Pantheon Books, 1976), 233. Vauzelles, Police Subsidiaire, 1, “y est tout a ung coup descendu telle multitude de pouvres que vous eussiez dict que cestoit la reste dung naufrage la par desfortune transportee.” Davis, Society and Culture, 21-22. 164 indigent residents, as certain restrictions on movement were cut back during fair times. Xenophobic tensions mounted in the last third of the century, but at this early stage of the Aumône, the diverse population of the city was relatively celebrated. By mid-century, after all, about sixty percent of the men and about a third of the women residing in Lyon came from elsewhere; and about nineteen percent of the adult males were from beyond the borders of France.498 The decision, therefore, to limit the charity of the Aumône was rooted in the recognition both of the city’s diversity and of the economic reality of finite resources. The recipients of the Aumône – those who received the weekly bread and/or money alms at Saint Bonaventure – were to be residents of Lyon only. Foreigners who had not resided in Lyon for an adequate period were given a passade, a small monetary sum (usually a sou) that would allow them to subsist while vacating the city; if they were ill, they would be cared for in the Hôtel Dieu until they recovered (or died).499 Rectors serving on the Aumône’s board were themselves often “foreigners” (from outside of Lyon, and from outside of France), and so in making the decision about recipients, they pragmatically recognized the demographics of their city, and defined the purview of the Aumône in a way that validated their own tight relationship with the municipality. The recipients of the Aumône were Lyonnais because the city’s economic fabric demanded a definition of identity that did not obstruct the in-migration necessary for their work force. Getting on the Aumône’s rolls meant becoming subject to the strictures of the institution – a system of surveillance, punishment, indoctrination, and marking. While the aims of the institution were seemingly benevolent, they co-existed with, and to some degree precipitated, systematically-imposed moral judgement. Rectors or their representatives would make visits to the homes of the Aumône recipients to ensure that they were not receiving benefits that they did not “need” or “deserve,” or that they were not misusing the alms for lecherous endeavors.500 The forms of surveillance, not always accounted for in the remaining archives of the Aumône, might best be viewed through the changes that were instituted with the Protestant take-over of the city in 1562. At the outset, the Protestants declared their intention to continue assisting all Lyonnais in need, regardless of faith.501 In order to do so, they emptied the coffers of the churches and monasteries, institutions that they were forcibly closing. By the end of the year of their rule, however, the Protestant rectors had installed a policy to remove from the Aumône and chase out of the city all those who were “gourmands, drunks, lazy, papists and seditious, not wanting to learn how to serve God according to the statutes of the Reformed Church” – distinctions that 498 499 500 501 Ibid., 43-44. The required period of residency changed with different phases of the Aumône, but it always remained a point for exclusion. Davis states that this period vacillated from three to seven years across the sixteenth century in Society and Culture, 51. The archives are indeed quite varied on the matter, and it continued to be an issue worth revisiting for the rectors throughout the century. A resolution was passed in 1546 to determine whether those receiving the Aumône had lied about having children, for example; if they had, they would be struck from the rolls and expelled from the city. AM ACh E5, fol.13. This was really a re-iteration (which seems to have been frequently necessary) of language drawn from the original ordinances of the Aumône: “Item font tenuz une foy lannée d’aller par la ville & en toutes les maisons des pauvres pour scavoir & s’enquerir de leurs voysins, si l’aulmosne y est employée, ou s’ilz ont moye[n] de gaigner leur vie, & s’ilz treuvent qu’ilz s’en puissent passer les casser d’icelle.” Police de l’Aulmosne, 34. With their ascendancy, they also combined the Aumône Générale with the Protestant Aumône. In part, this facilitated the already extant aims of the Protestant Aumône, such as funding the instruction of Lyonnais youth in the Protestant faith at institutions in Geneva. 165 required thorough visitations and community surveillance.502 With the re-institution of Catholic power in the city, the Aumône, like most other municipal establishments, became more conspicuously Catholic. The Police of the Aumône had insisted that the poor receive spiritual nourishment, but this only appears to have been decisively practiced after 1564, when the catechism began to be taught before the alms were handed out.503 The results of such instruction remain unknowable to some degree, but recurring assertions in the archival records of the need to remedy the poor’s “ignorance” of the Catholic faith suggest that the rectors saw it as an ongoing struggle. By the turn of the seventeenth century, teachers at the Aumône’s hospitals were hired to do double-duty that included catechism instruction at the Aumône’s weekly distribution of food and money; in all likelihood, they employed the same techniques with the Aumône recipients as they did with the orphans.504 As noted in the Police de l’Aulmosne above, failure to obey the stipulations of the Aumône could result in severe consequences – including being struck from the rolls, or confined to the Aumône’s disciplinary tower. Potential punishment was meant to serve as a terrifying deterrent for the subjects of the Aumône; indeed, according to the Aumône’s ordinances, the beadles who would chase down and arrest beggars were supposed to “instill fear in the poor.”505 As in most power relations, however, these strictures were not accepted by docile subjects, and the archives preserve traces of resistance506 – many of which concern reactions to the Aumône’s proto-police, the beadles. Initially, the beadles were each given their own quarters to police, but this repeatedly proved impossible, and in 1550 the four beadles were ordered to gather together so that they could “conquer the streets of the city together.”507 While the popular view of beggars may have been an ambivalent one that included a sense of fear and disgust, their removal from traditional spaces of alms-giving (church doors) was not passively accepted. Direct opposition to the policing work of the beadles is intimated by repeated references in the registers to their being injured while performing their duties – instances that are only recorded because they involved monetary compensation for the beadles.508 The minutes from the 1550 meeting above state that the beadles were unable to stop beggars because “these poor have the support of the menu peuple”509; and, into the seventeenth century the rectors of the Aumône complained to the lieutenant general of Lyon that, most often, the beadles could not arrest beggars because they were hindered by “artisans and other people who throw themselves on them, and remove [the 502 503 504 505 506 507 508 509 AM ACh E 10, fol. 584, “gourmans ivroignes paresseux papistes et sédicieux ne voulant apprendre à servir Dieu selon les statuz de l’Église réformée.” Police de l’Aulmosne, 16, “Finablement [...] fut conclu par une grande assemblée de gens [...] que les pauvres seroient a jamais (co[m]me ilz sont) entretenuz, nourriz, & endoctrinez.” In 1612, Noël Faure was hired hired to catechize the girls of Sainte Catherine, as well as the poor on the rolls, and he was paid the “same as predecessors.” AM ACh E32, fol. 87. Police de l’aumosne, 20, “Donner crainte aux pauvres.” I draw here on Foucault’s notion that power relations are constituted by a constant struggle, one which relies on the distinction between subjectivities. See, Michel Foucault, “The Subject and Power,” Critical Inquiry 8 (1982): 777-795; see also Foucault, “Disciplinary Power and Subjection”; and chapters in Foucault, Power, ed. James D. Faubion, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: The New Press, 1994). AM ACh E7, fol. 353, “battre tous ensembles les rues de la cité.” For example, in 1551, the Aumône ordered an individual to be sought out and arrested for injuring a beadle while he was doing his job. AM ACh E7, fol. 445. In 1557, another beadle wounded while on duty was compensated by the rectors. AM ACh E7, fol. 471. AM ACh E7, fol. 353, “iceulx pouvres ont support du menu peuple.” 166 beggars] from them, and even mistreat [the beadles].”510 The archives record one instance of resistance in 1539 for the sole reason that it involved legal proceedings; surely, many such events went completely unaccounted for when they did not incur formal punishments or compensation. In this 1539 archive, a beadle attempting to arrest a beggar for panhandling in front of Saint Paul’s church was impeded by Antoine Mulet, which instigated “rebellion, tumult, and mutiny of the people, against Raymond Arjollet, one of the Aumone’s beadles.”511 Mulet was pardoned, but on the condition that he pay for all of the legal fees that were accrued in his prosecution. While the rectors themselves helped the beadles to police the church doors throughout the 1540s-50s, by 1559 the Aumône began to pay wages to the Prévot, his lieutenant and sergeant, for assistance in stopping the poor from begging.512 Regulated forms of surveillance and punishment were still nascent during the early decades of the Aumône, but a desire for systematization produced a means of marking the poor. In 1582, the Aumône began to pass ordinances that its poor recipients don mandatory identity badges. In July of 1582, Jacques Bigaud was paid by the Aumône for making a public cry to inform the populace that the poor who received the Aumône were now going to be wearing a badge of a blue and red cross, such that they could be identified.513 By September of 1582, Antoine Plassard was paid to manufacture these crosses.514 The choice of a red and blue cross was surely meant to bind the Aumône recipients to Saint Jean de Matha, and the Order of the Holy Trinity for the Redemption of Captives – an order widely associated with a conflation of slaves, prisoners, and the poor.515 It seems no coincidence that plans for the enclosure of the poor began to recur obsessively in the meetings of the Aumône during precisely the same period. In June of 1581, the rectors held an extraordinary meeting to discuss plans with Governor Mandelot about their intention to build: a building or hospital, in the square by the old ditches of the Lanterne, to shelter an infinite [number] of poor, able-bodied, men as well as women, boys, and girls, that move as vagabonds and beggars throughout the city, and [...] to make them work in manual labour, each according to their capabilities, such that we may keep them from begging, and by this means, purge and clean the city.516 510 511 512 513 514 515 516 A. Steyert and F. Rolle, Inventaire Sommaire des Archives Hospitalières antérieures à 1790. Ville de Lyon. La Charité ou Aumône Générale (Lyon: Imprimerie Alf. Louis Perrin et Marinet, 1874), Serie A, Tomme 1, 5, “Leurs bedeaux ne peuvent, le plus souvent, arrêter les mendiants, empêchés qu’ils sont par les artisans ou autres personnes qui se jettent sur eux et leur enlèvent, et mesme les maltraîtent.” Translation mine. AM ACh E4, fol. 403, “rébellion tumulte et mutination de peuple contre Raymond Arjollet l’ung des bedeaulx de l’Aulmosne.” AM ACh E9, fol. 302. AM ACh E21, fol. 48. AM ACh E21, fol. 68. Badges for the poor seem to have been enforced across the century, and a request for 1500 such crosses appears in 1613. AM ACh, E31. The blue and red cross was the symbol of Saint Jean de Matha. Tellingly, the Third Order of the Trinitarians was a female order, instituted in Lyon and Valence in 1660 for the dual purpose of working as hospitaliers in charge of the Hôtel-Dieu, as well as the zealous educators of the young. See M.A.R. Tuker and Hope Malleson, Handbook of Christian and Ecclesiatical Rome: Christian Monuments of Rome, 4 vols. (London: A.C. Black, 1897-1900), 1: 220-223. AM ACh E 20, fol. 191, “un bastiment ou hospital en la place sur les vieulx fossés de la Lanterne pour y retirer une infinité de paovres, valides tant hommes que femmes filz et filles allant vacabons et mendians par ladicte 167 This was a project, however, that would take over thirty years to come to fruition – but the cooccurence of concerns about marking and concerns about enclosure were by no means random. As we will see, the project of confinement would be facilitated by both musical-performative procedures and by sticky affective rhetoric. These efforts at marking and enclosure took their most public form in the enforced general processions of the poor. These processions were deployed, in part, in order to elicit emotional responses from potential donors, “to awaken the charity which has cooled,” as so many of the registers state.517 At the same time, they also fulfilled two demonstrative roles: to proclaim a Lyonnais identity to the grand influx of foreigners in town for the fairs and to define the Aumône as Catholic. In the first regard, the Aumône was projected as a point of pride for the Lyonnais, as they had developed a civic alms system that, in some respects, was imitated across France – in Poitier, Angers, Troyes, Orléans, and even Paris.518 City notables, including the rectors, thus paraded (in a designated position of importance) within the procession; these same rectors would often move back and forth between representing Lyon on the city council, and serving on the board of the Aumône. In the second regard, I would go so far as to suggest that these processions were constituted by a Catholic ethos, despite the supposed “secularity” of the institution, for they were announced by the bells of the confraternities, and wove through the city to the metrical regulation of some of the most symbolically important communal Catholic chants. As noted above, unlike many popular processions, participation in the general processions of the poor was not done out of volition. These processions aimed at soliciting donors, in part, because they publicly performed the role of the poor within the city’s economy of faith – a role that, it was expected, would benefit the benefactors. For in the Catholic economy of faith, the poor had a special supplicatory capacity: because of their suffering, they were considered closer to Christ in their earthly life, and therefore, they had a closer connection to God in their prayers.519 The civic welfare systems that popped up in expanding urban centers throughout the sixteenth century, therefore, never aimed to eliminate poverty, only to alleviate a humanly unacceptable level of suffering (humanly unacceptable partly because city notables did not want to witness the vocal suffering of the poor in the most dire straits). These cities needed the poor to supplicate on their behalves – both on the part of the community as a whole, and more specifically on the part of the wealthy patrons of the Aumône.520 517 518 519 520 ville et [...] les faire travailler manuellement chascun selon sa possibilité fain de les garder de mendier et par ce moyen en purger et nettoyer ladicte ville.” AM ACh E4, fol. 170 r., “Pour reveiller la charité qui se refroidis.” Marcel Fosseyeux, “Premier budgets municipaux d’assistance. La taxe des pauvres au xvie siècle,” Revue d’Histoire de l’Eglise de France 20 (1934): 407-432. This was a commonly held Catholic belief throughout Europe. Tom Nichols has explored related issues about how this economy of faith was actualized in his examination of the developments in artistic representation of the poor in religious paintings in Venice; as the Venetian state began to intervene on poor relief, the poveri began to be increasingly painted as “an idealized human archetype whose suffering and humility associated him directly with Christ,” 139. This symbolization of the poor, Nichols argues, “as significant sacred actors in visual art was an aspect of their repression and exclusion in the social domain.” See Tom Nichols, “Secular Charity, Sacred Poverty: Picturing the Poor in Renaissance Venice,” Art History 30 (2007): 139-169 at 139. For example, when a Lyonnais citizen from Florence, Alexandre Arrighi, committed to a large annual donation in 1582, the rectors promised him that “ilz commanderont ausdictz paovres d’avoir mémoyre en leurs prières envers Dieu de la prospérité et santé deudict seigneur Arrighi, donateur, et des siens.” AM ACh E 21, fol. 22. Or, in 1605, Henri Bonnet made a donation in order to have a yearly Salve Regina sung by all of the orphans at La Chana and Sainte Catherine, and to have them pray to God for their benefactors. Inventaire Sommaire, Serie C, 168 The poor’s connection with Christ was also made theatrically visible, as accounts of the processions constantly remind us that a huge wooden cross was carried near the front of the parade. The most familiar manifestations of a large cross in popular experience would have occurred during Holy Week, with the Passion plays that dramatized the Passion of Christ, and Good Friday processions that moved through the stations of the cross. The subjection of the poor – the power relations used to ensure their submission to subjectivities beneficial to the Aumône – was also made performatively clear in these processions, most obviously through the actions of the beadles. For in contrast to the Rogation Days, where such figures would beat back the eager crowds with their long sticks, to ensure proper order at the general processions of the poor, the beadles of the Aumône beat the poor into the parade. The procession route described in the ordinances also taps into the territory and markers of popular feast-day processions: In leaving the Convent [of Saint Bonaventure], they will follow the route along the big Rue de la Grenette, and passing over the Saône bridge on the Rue Sainct Eloy, and between the two churches of Saint Paul and Saint Laurent. And from there take the streets de la Juifrie, des changes and Saint Jean, passing in front of the great church of Saint Jean, entering into the cloister of the house of the Archbishop [...] where all of the poor will receive (beyond their regular alms) three deniers tournois. The four mendicant orders will also receive alms after the procession. Once the alms are distributed, a general sermon will be given in the church of Saint Jean.521 This procession replicates the first half of the city’s all-parish Corpus Christi procession, which moved from Saint Jean, north to Saint Paul, across the Saône bridge to Saint Nizier, over to Saint Bonaventure; what it was missing, however, was the latter half of the procession, when the cortège would move more definitively into the printing quarter, first going down to the Rhône bridge hospital, northwest to Notre-Dame de Confort, back up rue Merciere, to return to Saint Jean via the Saône bridge (see Figure 4.1 for the full Corpus Christi procession; and Figure 2 for the poor procession described in the Police de l’Aulmosne).522 In all likelihood, the route of the general procession of the poor remained much the same throughout the century, as archival registers recounting the procession frequently refer to it proceeding “following the custom.”523 Logically, the rectors of the Aumône, as figureheads of the community, would have chosen a familiar parade route for the new practice of processing the poor. The choice of a partial Corpus Christi procession (a route that, because of its continuous 521 522 523 Tomme 2, 5. Police de l’aumosne, 43, “Au partement dudict convent prennent leur chemin le long de la grand rue de la grenette, & passent sur le pont de Saone en la rue sainct Eloy, & entre les deux esglises de sainct Paul, & sainct Laurens. Et de la se vont par les rues, de la Juifrie, des changes & sainct Jehan passer au devant de la grand esglise dudict sainct Jehan, entrent au cloistre de la maison de l’Arcevesque [...] ou tous lesdicts pauvres recoyvent (oultre leur aulmosne ordinaire) trois deniers tournoys. Aussi est faicte une aulmosne ausdictz quatre mendians apres ladicte procession. Ceste aulmosne faicte se faict ung sermon general en l’eglise dudict sainct Jehan.” See Davis, “The Sacred and the Body Social,” 56-57 for a description of the general Corpus Christi procession. For example, AM ACh E 12, fol. 44; E 13, fol. 55; E 13, fol. 226; E 19, fol. 92; E 20, fol. 188; E 29, fol. 40; E 29, fol. 248. 169 usage, would have been familiar to all Lyonnais) propels the sense that the poor’s march was explicitly connected with the celebration of the body of Christ – a relationship that played on the poor’s supplicatory connection with Christ, their role as the Godly beggars of the community. Figure 4.1: General Corpus Christi Procession Route in Lyon524 Figure 4.2: Poor Procession described in Police de l’Aulmosne (1539) 524 All processional maps are superimposed onto the Plan Scénographique map of Lyon, c. 1550, held at the AM. 170 Orphan Subjects Descriptions of these processions, however, fail to clarify exactly what these thousands of poor Aumône subjects were doing; the archives really only refer to them when they have done something unacceptable, and new regulations for their discipline must be put in place. From several accounts, it would seem that they were “reciting their hours” – which may have involved some kind of musical formula.525 The “hours” refer to the divine offices practiced in monasteries, and, more particularly, to the most popular print owned by the laity in the sixteenth century: the Book of Hours, which featured a selection of popular texts, prayers, hymns, canticles, and antiphons that were mostly extracted from the breviary. Some of the better-off recipients of the Aumône who had fallen on hard times might have owned a Book of Hours; even so, much of their primary content was learned by Catholics in the most basic Sunday school classes.526 As noted, there is a blatant lack of attention to the activity of the poor in the ideal account of the general processions given in the ordinances, which follows the formalities of the familiar literary genre of the royal entry. Natalie Zemon Davis has suggested that the editor of the Police de l’Aulmosne may have been Jean de Vauzelles, and the deployment of the royal entry style account would help to support this theory, as Vauzelles himself had published what was considered one of the first Renaissance pamphlets commemorating the civic entry of a noble (noted above).527 In the style of a royal entry formula, in any case, the Police de l’Aulmosne focuses on the most notable citizens and dignitaries. These figures, however, were not intended to be representatives of the Aumône, in the sense that they were not meant to elicit pity and charity. While this role was played in part by the great mass of parading Aumône recipients, it was more ideally performed by the Aumône’s other subjects: the orphans held at the two hospitals, the Hôpital de la Chana, which housed the boys, and the Hôpital Sainte Catherine, which housed the girls.528 While the Aumône, like other European experiments in urban welfare, was partly an attempt to regulate alms giving in order to distinguish between “deserving” and “undeserving” poor, the recipients were by and large treated with suspicion: it was largely assumed that the poor would likely dwell in an irremediable moral laxity. The orphans, on the other hand, provided the rectors with a ready representation of innocent poverty, in part because they had been “rescued” from the potential corruptions of street life, and also because these rectors recognized the malleability of childhood. As examined in conjunction with the Erasmian principles of Chapter One, there was a rising consciousness in the sixteenth century of the importance and potential of early childhood education. Since the orphans could be indoctrinated young, it was believed that they could be saved from the loose morals that their social class was often considered to embody. 525 526 527 528 This is referenced in the Police de l’Aulmosne, noted above. See also AM ACh E4, fol. 75. For a thorough and insightful discussion on Books of Hours in medieval and early modern France, see Virginia Reinburg, French Books of Hours: Making an Archive of Prayer, c. 1400-1600 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). That being the Entrée de la Royne faicte en l’antique et noble cité de Lyon (Lyon: Jean Crespin, 1533). As noted above, if orphans were taken in before the age of seven they were housed in the Hôtel Dieu, the hospice for the sick. Police de l’Aulmosne, 49. This was evidently not always practiced, as the rectors are found declaiming this regulations repeatedly after post-procession visits to the Hôpital de la Chana, and the Hôpital Sainte Catherine. 171 The Aumône took a liberal approach to the orphans that they accepted: often, they could still have living parents who just could not afford to care for them; in one instance, a mother brought her daughter to the Hôpital Sainte Catherine in order to punish her.529 But the main requirement was that the orphans at the Hôpitaux be children of Lyonnais residents – basically an extension of the Aumône’s general policy of what constituted a “Lyonnais” subject.530 In a move that seems to have been particular to Lyon, the rectors actually adopted these orphans, taking on the role of their legal guardians.531 As redeemed Lyonnais subjects, then, these orphans were the true headliners of the general procession of the poor, organized into pairs, burning white candles while they sang litanies; the very smallest Hopitaux orphans took up the lead of the procession, marching ahead of the great throng of Aumône recipients. Generally ranging from about seven to fifteen years of age, the approximately 300 orphans represented a model of innocent poverty and their (relative) organization displayed the good work of the Aumône.532 And they were similarly exhibited outside of these processions, being sent weekly to stand over the alms boxes that were set up across the city’s parishes to solicit charity through their pure, piteous presence.533 Like the poor more generally, the orphans were believed to possess particularly strong connections with Christ, and so they were sought out by wealthy citizens to pray at their funerals.534 Their supplicatory capacities were clearly desired by the same kinds of city notables that donated to the Aumône, and like in the processions, the orphans held white candles and sang prayers, but specifically for their dead benefactors. We know that the orphans were in great demand from the Aumône’s strictures to cease sending them out because they were losing money on their attendance at funerals (people were not ponying up, after making the requests). The archives thus speak in far greater detail about the materials related to the orphan’s attendance (the candles, and the robes de dueil) than their performative presence (songs and prayers).535 Yet broader Catholic practices would suggest that, since the orphans were hired expressly as supplicants for their dead, wealthy benefactors, they were most likely singing appropriate chants from the Office of the Dead. The schoolmasters that were hired at La Chana throughout the sixteenth century were priests, and, based on the accolades that some of them received from the rectors, their instruction put the children on a path that the Aumône approved of.536 Assumedly, given the public 529 530 531 532 533 534 535 536 AM ACh, E10 fol. 214 (Sunday 15 March, 1561). For example, a situation had arisen in 1544 where the rectors needed to reiterate that “enfants estrangers” or children born outside of the city could not be brought into the Aumône, and had to be sent back to their home. AM ACh E6, fol. 398-99. Davis, Society and Culture, 42. This estimation of 300 orphans in the Hôpitaux comes from Ibid., 49. AM ACh E5, fol. 376-77 (April 1539); E7, fol. 422 (December 1550). This practice emerged from a long tradition stretching back centuries, and across most of Europe. At different points, however, wills would also stipulate more generally that a number of poor be present at the funeral; a related practice reaches back for generations of giving an endowment to have a number of relatively random poor pray at your grave at designated intervals (e.g. yearly), for which they would be fed or given a small handout. Archives for 1549-1551, in AM ACh E7, largely center on goods when referring to funerals at which the orphans performed, for example. The archives focus on this issue with greater urgency during a period of extreme economic downturn in the 1580s. The priest Hugues Narbollier, schoolmaster at La Chana by at least 1537, for example, was given a bonus by the rectors in 1543 in recognition of his great service. AM ACh E6, fol. 343. He remained the schoolmaster until 172 importance of the orphans at city notables’ funerals, a primary goal would have been the acquisition of skills for funeral ceremonial – both in the sense of basic “civilized” behavior, and as regards the specific musical performances that these funerals demanded. A payment made in 1559 to the book merchant Antoine Volant for fifty-five sous tournois for three dozen Heures and three dozen Chartres suggests that these basic pedagogical aims were being achieved, if not exceeded. The purchase of the Heures indicates training in at least a basic level of literacy, for these Books of Hours were the most typical primer during the sixteenth century. Furthermore, as Kate van Orden has shown, elementary “reading” with texts like the Book of Hours was based within musical memory, where “reading catechistic texts activated a matrix of background knowledge stored in musical form.”537 The ubiquity of Books of Hours also points to a linguistic issue that is clearly at play within the description of the general procession of the poor in the Police de l’Aumosne, which states that the girl orphans were singing “Sancta Maria, priez pour nous.” This phrase appears in many guises as a supplication in both plainchant and polyphony, but its most widespread usage was as the litany “Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis” or as the latter half of the Ave Maria.538 The Ave Maria was one of three basic prayers all Christians were required to know (the other two being the Lord’s Prayer and the Apostle’s Creed).539 It is possible that the orphan girls were singing a portion (or the entirety) of the Ave Maria, but whatever the case, they were definitively singing a supplicatory phrase that had widespread currency. The striking issue with this very common prayer is that it is referred to in the Police de l’Aumosne as a poly-lingual text. The mixture of Latin and French here speaks to more general issues about the vernacular in religious education and ritual, a matter that the Jesuits would become thoroughly embroiled with as they advocated for extensive use of the vernacular in all of their European and colonial proselytizing. The iteration of a poly-lingual “Sancta Maria, priez pour nous” in 1539, furthermore, points to a relationship with Books of Hours which by the 1520s, were mostly Latin-French hybrids.540 The Office of the Virgin, in fact, was generally translated into French, and it was also the textual heart of the Book of Hours.541 The use of Books of Hours within the Aumône’s educational paradigm would have been basic and essential; the poly-lingual content of these texts also specifically intimates the possibility of education in the vernacular, including the potential use of the vernacular in key Catholic chants. Practically, the purchase of so many Books of Hours supports the aforementioned suggestion that the orphans were performing from the Office of the Dead at the funeral services that they attended, for this Office was typically furnished by most Heures. The exception to the rule of such Catholic training (including priests serving as schoolmasters of the Hôpitaux) was, logically, the year of Protestant rule, 1562-63. As with all other levels of government, Protestants took over the administration of the Aumône; and while Natalie Zemon Davis has rightly stated that the Aumône was not grossly changed in structure during this year, there were notable alterations to the educational programs of the Hôpitaux. The 537 538 539 540 541 1545, when he fled during a plague epidemic. AM ACh E6, fol. 480-81. van Orden, “Children’s Voices,” 216. For a discussion of the broad use of varied “Ave Maria” prayers, and their relevance to musical composition and practice, see Ibid., 209-256. Reinburg, French Books of Hours, 88. Ibid., 99. Ibid., 96. 173 Catholic schoolmaster at La Chana was replaced by a Protestant, a Mr Girard, and the rectors began searching for a female instructor who could teach the girl orphans the tenets of the faith, as well as how to read and write.542 The rectors ordered Mr Girard to take the children of La Chana to attend the Protestant sermons twice a week, on Sundays and Wednesdays; and the Aumône paid for six students to be trained in Geneva as preachers.543 Significantly, while the Protestants were in power, the Aumône was also promised a donation of one hundred of the official Genevan psalters from the merchant-printer and former Aumône rector, Antoine Vincent.544 As elaborated in Chapter Two, the Protestant psalter was considered a key component of indoctrination, and children were particularly targeted as absorbent subjects. Since they sang at funerals (though this practice would have been halted during the Protestant rule), likely at the alms boxes, and definitely at the general processions of the poor (though, again, not in 1562), the orphans would have received a certain level of musical training. A donation as large as one hundred psalters, however, specifically suggests that they were receiving education in musical literacy – for such ample quantities of prints would not have been necessary (nor financially practical) if the orphans were only being trained by rote. As noted in Chapter Two, during the Protestant rule, the orphans were also instructed in psalm singing for one hour a day – basically replicating the rules established in Geneva, where children were considered ideal examples for the congregation.545 Once the Protestants were removed from power, however, the Hôpital de la Chana began to develop close ties with an institution that, by 1567, had been fully overtaken by the ultraCatholic Jesuits: the Collège de la Trinité. For one, through a donation from the former rector, nobleman Hugues Athiaud, the Aumône endowed funds for up to six promising orphans per year to attend the Collège. These students remained sartorially distinct within the Collège, as they were outfitted in special clothing to identify them as enfans Athiaud.546 These particular orphans would have received an education under the helm of the Jesuits, and would have participated in the extravagant musical theatrical productions that the Collège mounted at the beginning of the year.547 Beyond this circumscribed context, the Aumône in general began to grow more connected to the Jesuits – unsurprisingly at the moment when their influence was substantially mounting in the city. In 1580, the Jesuit Émond Auger even gave the sermon at the end of the general procession of the poor at Saint Jean.548 The Jesuits’ extensive pedagogical influence in the city surely also took hold at the Hopitaux. Another educational purchase at the Aumône in 1582 points to this possibility, for the rectors bought two dozen Phabetz, two dozen Vita Christi, 542 543 544 545 546 547 548 AM ACh E10, fol. 461 (June 1562), and E10, fol. 459 (June 1562) AM ACh E10, fol. 465. AM ACh E10, fol. 443-444. See Chapter Two of this dissertation. The registers of La Charité from 1760 suggest an impressive continuity of this endowment: “il y a toujours […] dans cet hôpital, six enfans qu’on fait étudier au collège, sous le nom des: enfans Athiaud.” Inventaire sommaire, Serie C, 2: 4. On such spectacles at the Collège, see Pierre Guillot, Les Jésuites et la Musique: Le Collège de la Trinité à Lyon, 1565-1762 (Liège: Mardaga, 1991). Most of the extant sources for such spectacles begin in the seventeenth century, but the students were apparently performing in (musical-) theatrical pieces throughout the Jesuit control of the school; while some of these productions were for great political figures like Henry IV, most of them were actually encomia to the city council. AM ACh E 20, fol. 49 174 a dozen Cathéquismes, two dozen Catons and six Pellisonnet for the children at La Chana – all from Jean Pillehotte, a zealous Catholic, and the Jesuit’s official printer.549 Given the great success of Auger’s catechism (Henri Hours has estimated that about 40, 000 copies were printed in the eight years after its initial publication), and Pillehotte’s connection with the Jesuits, the dozen catechisms were probably Auger’s Catechisme et sommaire de la religion chrestienne avec un formulaire de diverses prieres catholiques, printed in Lyon in 1563, 1564, and 1568 by the other official Jesuit printer, Michel Jove.550 The purchase of these prints from Pillehotte thus connects the Aumône materially with the effects of Jesuit pedagogy. It seems likely, then, that Jesuit practices of musical indoctrination that extended into the vernacular would have taken root at the Aumône. Given his political and religious connections with the rectors, Pillehotte might have peddled them his print of the Jesuit father and rector of the Collège de la Trinité, Michel Coyssard’s 1592 Paraphrase des Hymnes et Cantiques Spirituelz pour chanter avecque la Doctrine Chrestienne, which Pillehotte had printed in Lyon. The print translates into the vernacular all of the texts from the catechism – and, as Denis Launay explains, it was intended as a musical supplement (rather than a replacement) for the catechism manual.551 This collection would have provided an apt musical addition to Coyssard’s own catechism (the Sommaire de la Doctrine Chrestienne), or to the Auger catechism that the Aumône likely already owned. The chants paraphrased here were also probably those that the orphans were required to perform most often – including, of course, their processional Ave Maria, as well as the litany. Further, the kinds of musical practices that are laid out in Coyssard’s Paraphrase were experimented with by the Jesuits well before they were put into print; after all, these publications were still oriented towards oral practice, and very likely learning by rote. The Catholic hierarchy remained uncomfortable with giving the menu peuple access to the Word; and Jesuit pedagogy remained focused on learning practices that could be surveilled, something particularly suited to musical learning.552 The (literally) captive audience of the orphans, who necessarily needed to be trained in singing chants for processions and funerals, would have provided an apt group for the Jesuits’ musical-pedagogical essays.553 549 550 551 552 553 AM ACh E 21, fol. 78-79. On the Hours statistic, see Hartley, “War and Tolerance,” 256. The rest of the purchases also suggest a relatively advanced educational program. The “Catons” and “Pellissonnets” would have been used, respectively, in the cinquième class, the first step up from the abécédaire, where students would have continued to practice reading and writing Latin; and in the next level, the quatrième, where students began to study Terence and Cicero, through the help of humanist grammarians like Pellisson (as well as Valla, Lineacre, and Clénard). See Huppert, Public Schools, 53. The use of Pellisson in Lyon was particularly fitting, as he had been hired as a teacher at the Collège de la Trinité in 1533. Denis Launay, La musique religieuse en France du Concile de Trente à 1804 (Paris: Société Française de Musicologie, 1993), 120. In the seventeenth century, after visiting the orphan Hôpitaux, Étienne Chomen, a rector of the Aumône, gave a report to the Bureau, where he suggested having the La Chana orphans read at dinner, replicating practices from the Jesuit colleges: “pendant leurdict repas, les ungs après les aultres, les plus capables feroient lecture, comme l’on faict aux colléges.” AM ACh E 29, fol. 273 (1604). In 1561, the Hôpital Sainte Catherine actually set up a prison, in order to punish and extirpate the debauchery of the young women therein: “il y a plusieurs filles adoptives à l’Aulmosne que font les folles et permectent se cognoistre charnellement et déflorer, de sort qu’il en est advenu plusieurs scandalles, et qu’il seroit de besoing les chastier ung peu rigoureusement pour donner exemple aux aultres.” AM ACh E10, fol. 312 (August 1561). References in the archives to girl orphans needing to be punished and imprisoned for their degeneracy continue 175 The simplicity of the four-voice vernacular settings in Coyssard’s Paraphrase des Hymnes would have been appropriate to the elementary musical training and demure performances demanded of orphans aged seven to fifteen at such events. The homophonic setting of the “Pater Noster,” for example, may have been sung at funerals as part of the Office of the Dead.554 Similarly, the paraphrase of the “Ave Maria” would have been appropriate in many ritual circumstances, and one could imagine the orphans singing such a sweet setting while stationed in front of the collection boxes. One piece that does not appear in Coyssard’s index would have been particularly fitting as a preliminary exercise in polyphonic singing: the “Canon à quatre en unison.” Following a longer setting of “Les Commandemens de Dieu,” this canon for four high voices sets terse little paraphrases of the Ten Commandments (see Example 4.1 for a resolution of the canon).555 Such a round would have been easily learned by rote, as each voice enters every sixth tactus, and the musical phrases are simple, but memorably distinct. The melody would also have offered some playful interest to these child performers, as it moves from an opening dactylic phrase in conjunct motion (“Adore un Dieu.”), into pattery semiminims (“Ne sois meurtrier. Ni paillard.”), and leaps to its peak pitches on the final phrase (“A l’autruy ne pretens.”). While this song would have been very simple to learn, the resulting polyphonic texture would have been impressively striking in performance. This canon would have been particularly pragmatic for performances by the orphans in settings that demanded flexible timing – for they could have cycled through the canon ad infinitum, until their innocent voices were no longer required. There are two other pithy settings in the Coyssard Paraphrase des Hymnes that are especially suited to the musical demands made of the orphans: the two little litanies, “Kyrie eleison,” and “Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis” (see Figure 4.3). Set in decorated homophony, the top three voices of both of these brief settings could have been performed by the orphans during the great processions of the poor, while their schoolmaster could have helped to monitor and organize their singing by taking up the bass voice. Coyssard’s settings were, after all, linguistic variations on the chants that the orphans were described as singing in the Police de l’Aulmosne of 1539 – where the boys sang “Fili dei miserere nobis,” and the girls, “Sancta Maria mère de Jesus, priès pour nous.” As we will see, as the rectors of the Aumône increasingly fostered connections with the Jesuits, such pedagogical musical practices would be performatively played out within and without the Hôpitaux. 554 555 well into the seventeenth century. A later print by Coyssard could also have proven useful for orphans’ performances at funerals, Les Hymnes Sacrez, et Odes Spirituelles. Pour chanter devant, & apres la Leçon du Catechisme, Avec un petit Traicté du profit, qu’on en tire (Lyon: Jean Pillehotte, 1608). This collection contains numerous chants for the Office of the Dead. The print, however, did not necessarily offer the simple polyphonic interest of the Paraphrase des Hymnes, for all of these paraphrases are given without music, but assumedly were to be sung as contrafacta. See also Kate van Orden’s discussion of both of these collections in “Children’s Voices.” There is also a seven-voice canon with even shorter musical phrases that is written out in a clear early modern hand in the only known surviving edition of the Coyssard Paraphrase des Hymnes, which is held at the BnF. Res VMD 14. Discussed in van Orden, “Children’s Voices.” 176 Example 4.1: “Adore un Dieu” Canon, Coyssard, Paraphrase des Hymnes (1592) 177 Figure 4.3: “Kyrie eleison” and “Sancta Maria,” Coyssard, Paraphrase des Hymnes (1592) Poor Subjects and Contagious Cleansing By 1592, when Coyssard published his Paraphrase des Hymnes, the political climate in Lyon had shifted towards radical Catholicism. While this had been a gradual development since the late 1560s, and had mounted with the increased militarism of the 1570s and 1580s, the decisive move came in 1589, when the city of Lyon formally proclaimed its allegiance to the Holy Catholic League. This declaration was written up and prefaced by Claude de Rubys, and published by none other than Jean Pillehotte, signed on March 2 of 1589.556 The polemic 556 The declaration begins: “Premièrement nous promettons à Dieu, sa glorieuse mère, anges, saints, et saintes du Paradis de vivre et mourir en la religion catholique et romaine et y employer nos vies et biens sans y rien épargner jusqu’à la dernière goutte de notre sang, espérant que Dieu, qui est seul salvateur de nos âmes, nous assistera dans une si sainte résolution en laquelle nous protestons n’avoir autre but que la manutention et exaltation de son saint nom et protection de son Eglise, à l’encontre de ceux qui, ouvertement et par moyens occultes, s’efforcent l’anéantir et maintenir l’hérésie et la tyrannie [...] Arrêté au Consulat tenu en l’hôtel commun de cette ville le jeudi deuxième jour de mars 1589.” Declaration des Consulz, Eschevins, Manans et Habitans de la ville de Lyon, sur l’occasion de la prise des armes par eux faicte, le vingtquatriesme Febvrier 1589. Avec les Articles de la resolution par eux prinse sur les occasions des presents troubles (Lyon: Jean Pillehotte, 1589). 178 discussed in Chapter Three was at its height in the 1580s, one pamphlet going so far as to demand that moderate Catholics (politiques) be purged from the city.557 The League had many enthusiastic adherents amongst the city’s influential Jesuits; the city’s definitive declaration of allegiance to the League, however, came in large part from the political maneuvering of passionate radical Catholics like the magistrate and councilman Claude de Rubys and the canoncount of Saint Jean, Estienne de La Barge.558 Catholics already outnumbered Protestants on the city council in 1567 by eight to four; and when the zealous Catholic François de Mandelot was appointed Governor of Lyon in 1568, the turn towards Catholic extremism began to fully take hold in municipal governance.559 Once the city council declared allegiance to the League, moderates were excluded from political and policing positions, and Claude de Rubys was made Procureur Générale.560 As noted above, city notables moved back and forth between the city council and the board of the Aumône, and, unsurprisingly, we begin to see adamant supporters of the League serving as rectors for the Aumône from the end of the 1570s, and definitively during the 1580s. There was a great deal of overlap between the city council, the Aumône, and Catholic penitential confraternities, as notables like Justinien Pense served as Aumône rector in 1573, and also helped to initiate the White Penitents of Confalon – an organization that elite radicals like Rubys immediately joined. It comes as no great surprise then, that the core arsenal of Catholic displays of faith and penitence became key to the political tactics adopted by these city notables. Precisely three days after the city council had decided to declare its allegiance to the League, the canon-count Estienne de la Barge – formerly a rector for the Aumône in 1575, 1581, and 1587 (a repeated service which was rare) – appeared at the weekly meeting of the Aumône to propose that “[...] to assuage God’s ire against his poor people, given the misery and calamity that reigns at present, it would be expedient and necessary to pray in a grand devotion.”561 The rectors agreed: [...] unanimously and in one voice [...] to have the poor orphans from the Aumône process, those who are in the hospitals de la Chana and Sainte Catherine [...] every Tuesday, beginning the Tuesday next [March 7, 1589], the child orphans will leave from Saint Bonaventure convent, two by two, with the smallest ones first, and [they will march] little by little, each carrying a lit candle in their hands, the boys singing the Litany, and the girls “Sainte-Marie, mère de Dieu, priés pour nous”; and at the front will march an orphan carrying the crucifix, following the normal custom; all of the rectors of the Aumône will attend this procession, each of them also carrying a [large] white candle, accompanied by the city’s mendicant 557 558 559 560 561 Brief recueil des raisons pour lesquelles ceux que l’on appele Politiques, ne doivent pas encores estre recuz en ceste ville de Lyon ni és autres villes de la S. Union (Lyon: n.p., 1589). Rubys had already drawn up a list of grievances against the crown from the Catholic bourgeoisie of Lyon in 1576 that concluded with recommendations that the king create a network of ultra-Catholic cities and elites who could ensure the unity of the kingdom by exterminating the Protestants – basically the project of the League. See Hartley, “War and Tolerance,” 104. On Mandelot’s governance, see Antoine Péricaud, Notice sur François de Mandelot, gouverneur et lieutenantgénéral du Lyonnais, Forez et Beaujolais, sous Charles IX et Henri III (Lyon: n.p., 1828); and Pallasse, La sénéchaussée et siège présidial de Lyon, 306-312. Pallasse, La sénéchausée, 377-83. AM ACh E 25, fol. 234, “[...] pour apaise l’ire de Dieu contre son pauvre peuple, attendu la misère et calamité du temps qui règne à présent, il serait expédient et nécessaire de le prier par grand dévotion.” 179 [orders], each following the proper order; the [orphan] children will march together [...] with bare heads and feet; and the beadles will march with bare heads only, given the difficulty that they will have keeping these poor in line.562 The support of these notables for the Catholic League would have meant participating in a stream of militaristic penitential processions in the 1580s, marking and cleansing confessional urban space. In this sense, the activation of a poor procession during a time of religious crisis follows from broader practices. Furthermore, such a deployment also bound the poor processions to another form of crisis that incited the most frequent purgative penitential processions in the sixteenth century: epidemics of the plague. In 1577, when Lyon was wracked by the second major plague epidemic of the sixteenth century (the other occurred in 1564), it was Rubys and other ardent Catholics who planned huge displays of penitence, particularly through processions. Notably, radical Catholics in both instances publicly blamed the Huguenots for the spread of the disease. In 1577, Rubys actually published a treatise, the Discours de la contagion de peste qui a esté ceste presente année en la ville de Lyon, a document addressed to Nicolas Bauffremont, purportedly to inform him that the plague had abated, and Lyon’s fairs could thus resume.563 As Justine Semmens has shown, however, this treatise carried a polemical message that conflated spiritual and physical infection and purgation. As the Jesuit Auger had done in 1564, Rubys accused the Protestants of having spread the plague through the city by both “seeding” (putting plague-infected specimens into food, etc.), and “greasing” (smearing the puss of plague victims onto doorknobs, walls, etc.).564 Referring back to the 1534 Affair des Placards, through a major chronological revision, Rubys claimed that Francis I’s procession through Paris (displaying the Host that the placards had attacked) had spiritually cleansed the city, allowing for the culprit heretics to be found out and punished.565 Rubys declared, likewise, that the penitential demonstrations that had taken place in Lyon during the plague of 1577 had invited God’s pity for the Catholic people, who were rewarded by His punishment of the Protestants who “died in heaps.”566 Since the growth of confessional tensions from mid-century in France, plague treatises had made a turn towards wrath: about half of all medical treatises on the plague in France during 562 563 564 565 566 Ibid., “unanimement et d’une mesme voix […] de faire faire processions aux povres orphelins de ladicte Aulmosne, qui sont aux hospitaulx de la Chanal et Saincte-Catherine […] chascun jour de mardy, à commencer mardy prochain, lesdictz enfans orfelins despartiront du couvent Sainct-Bonadventure deux à deux et les plus petiz premier de degré en degré portans chacun ung cierge flamboyant en la main chantans, quant aux filz la Litanie, et les filles: “Sainte-Marie, mère de Dieu, priés pour nous”; et marchera en teste ung, qui portera le Crucifix, à la manière accoustumée; ausquelles processions assisteront tous les recteurs de ladicte Aulmosne, portans chacun ung cierge cyre blanche de demy-livre, accompagnés des mendians de ceste ville, chacun à son tour; marcheront lesdictz enfans ensemble [...] piedz et teste nudz; marcheront les bedeaulx, teste nue seulement, attendu la peyne qu’ilz auront à dresser par rang lesdictz pauvres.” Discours de la contagion de peste qui a esté ceste presente année en la ville de Lyon, Contenant les causes d’icelle, l’ordre, moyen, & police tenue pour en purger, nettoyer & delivre la ville (Lyon: Jean Dogerolles, 1577). Justine Semmens, “Plague, Propaganda, and Prophetic Violence in Sixteenth-Century Lyon,” in Aspects of Violence in Renaissance Europe, ed. Jonathan Davies, 83-106 (Burlington: Ashgate, 2013). Of course, this was not the order of the events. The group of heretic perpetrators had already been arrested before Francis I processed through Paris. The event did culminate, however, with the mass execution of the heretics. Rubys, Discours sur la contagion, 32, “Les seulz heretiques deceuz par la predistiation de Calvin, demourere[n]t en la ville continuans leurs preches ez mosquees qu’ilz y avoyent lors encores dressez, & moururent à tas.” 180 the Wars of Religion suddenly cited God’s ire as the main cause of the epidemic, and offered penitential displays as the integral cure.567 Indeed, in Lyon, even the moderate Catholic Paradin blamed God’s anger for the plagues, floods, famines, etc., that the city had suffered across the recent history that he laid out.568 Rubys pointedly ascribed the cause of this wrath to the city’s Protestants, claiming that the death toll of 1577 represented God finishing off what he had started with the Holy vengeance of Vespres Lyonnais of 1572: This horde of Calvinists [...] the foul incantations and endeavors [of] these rebellious peoples [...] a just and more than reasonable anger was wrought against them from the furious hand [of God] on Sunday, August 30, 1572 and such vengeance was enacted by his hand over such a just and holy battle that it seemed that the sky and the earth were in league with [the force of God].569 Importantly, for Rubys, the ritual act of penitential procession through the streets of Lyon was what incited both God’s pity (for the Catholics) and his wrath (against the Protestants), resulting in the punishment of the heretics. As we saw with the polemical pamphlets and sermons in Chapter Three, the concept of the Protestants infecting the body social, the body of Christ, through their heretical presence had quickly become a commonplace in anti-Protestant rhetoric. This understanding of pollution was thus also made physical, in the body wracked with plague. According to Rubys, through the sacraments of penance and the Eucharist, this physical infection was ritually purged. Integral to this cleansing was its public presence in urban space – for processions were the primary cure. We might wonder why, with the increased display of the Host in processions in these later decades of the Wars of Religion, the general procession of the poor did not adopt this ritual feature. The presence of a large wooden cross is always highlighted in descriptions of these poor processions, but the Eucharist never seems to have made an appearance. The ritual symbolics here are important, because through this display of the enormous wooden cross, the poor procession was being linked at its core to the suffering of Christ, to the poor’s circumscribed role within the community’s economy of faith. But the Aumône also medicalized the ideas of their good works, as the ordinances declared in 1539: [...] before this good and charitable institution of the Aumône, the plague ruled in this city of Lyon during the length of fourteen or fifteen years, never leaving for a single year [...] But since the poor have been been removed as such, saved, and fed, there cannot be found one man who is affected or persecuted [by the plague] 567 568 569 Joël Coste, Représentations et comportements en temps d’épidémie dans la littérature imprimée de peste, 14901725 (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2007), 109. Paradin also describes aberrations of nature, such as conjoined twins, as signs of God’s wrath. The reason that he gives for this wrath, however, is the division between the Christian people of France. Guillaume Paradin, Memoires de l’Histoire de Lyon, Par Guillaume Paradin de Cuyseaulx, Doyen de Beaujeu. Avec une table des choses memorables contenues en ce present livre (Lyon: Antoine Gyphius, 1573), 384-86. Rubys, Discours de la contagion, 39-40, “Ceste tourbe calviniste [...] les assidieuses conjurations & entreprises de ce peuple rebelle meu d’une juste & plus que raisonable cholere se rua sur eux d’une main furieuse le dymanche xxx d’Aoust 1572 & fit la vengeance de sa main d’une si juste & si saincte querelle en laquelle il semble que le ciel & la terre estoient bendez avec eux.” 181 nor by any other contagious disease.570 The city’s beggars were frequently associated with the plague, as Natalie Zemon Davis has argued.571 And an explicit connection between heresy and the street poor was made clear in a royal edict that was proclaimed and printed in Lyon in 1564, which tied together warnings to abide the strict ordinances of the Aumône with exhortations against blaspheming: Very express command is made to all vagrants and people without employment or trade, being in the said city, that, after the publication of the present [commands], they should forthwith vacate and go out of the said city and its faubourgs, upon pain of hanging. It is charged upon the said pains to all hoteliers, innkeepers, and other persons of whatever quality and condition that they might be, not to seclude, give lodging to, nor administer any board to the said persons beyond one night, without our express leave. And to remove the means of supporting and secluding the above-said vagrants and idle people, all people living in this city as well as in its faubourgs are forbidden to hold casinos in their homes and gardens [...] upon the said pain of hanging, as much against those who operate these said casinos as against those who would be found playing. Also in following the old Decrees and saintly constitutions of the King our Master, it is very expressly forbidden and prohibited to all persons of whatever estate, quality, and condition that they might be to swear, blaspheme, and renounce the name of God, to make other vile and detestable sermons against the honor of God, the Virgin Mary, and the Saints, to sing or say dissolute songs and songs leaning toward sedition, or to agitate by insults or otherwise and under the pretext of Religion, upon the pains contained in these said Decrees [of hanging].572 Given the publicly cried relations between confessional tension, vagrancy, and the moral health of the community, the affective rhetoric of “cleansing” the city did not exist in some detached world of ideas. As we saw in Chapter Three, it was expressed and amplified through the oral (-musical) culture of pamphlets and placards; and as Natalie Zemon Davis, Barbara Diefendorf, and Philip Benedict have shown, the ritual purging of the communal body of Christ 570 571 572 Police de l’aumosne, 44,“[...] au paravant de ceste bonne & charitable institution d’aulmosne, la peste avoit regné dedens ladicte ville de Lyon lespace de quatorze a quinze ans, sans en sortir une seulle année [...] Mais depuis que les pauvres furent ainsi retirez, secourez, & nourriz, il ne se trouvera quung seul homme en ait este actainct ne persequute: ny d’autre maladie contagieuse.” “[C]rowds of beggars deserving and undeserving were thought to enhance the danger of the plague.” Davis, Society and Culture, 26. From Decree of the King and of Monseigneur de Losses ... not to blaspheme, gamble, nor sing dissolute songs, all upon pain of death by hanging (Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, 1564). Quoted in van Orden, “Cheap Print and Street Song,” 274-75. This decree is also quoted in part in Chapter Three, where it is referred to in regards to the perceived dangers of inflammatory street songs. 182 was enacted upon the bodies of Protestants.573 And, for one, Ruby’s gesture of conflating Protestantism with the plague was prepared in popular culture by the preaching of ultra-Catholic figures like Auger. Given his tendency for heavy-handed assertions in his reportedly fiery speeches, the large audiences that attended his sermons would surely have been persuasively admonished to suspect their city’s Protestant population of plague greasing conspiracies. It is likely that the 1580 sermon that he performed for the general procession of the poor included some grave warnings about the physicalized infections the Huguenots were ready to inflict upon the city. Figures like Rubys and Auger went to great lengths to ensure that their radical Leaguer sentiments were spread widely; the idea of there being perpetrators responsible for the epidemic in 1577, for example, intruded horrifyingly into public space through the erection of gibbets in the carrefours of the city to hang plague conspirators.574 No doubt this engaged the deeplyentrenched fears of the heretic Protestants that had been propagating amongst the populace since the late 1560s. Examining how the rhetoric from speeches on asylum seekers by conservative British politicians became stuck to the notion of the burglar – allowing the figure of the asylum seeker to be positioned as an invader, aiming to steal the jobs and livelihoods of the British – Sara Ahmed argues that “words generate effects: they create impressions of others as those who have invaded the space of the nation, threatening its existence.”575 Familiar, sticky language with affective valence, used in temporal proximity, can become detached from particular bodies, and reattach to subjects that are somehow deemed related: The impossibility of reducing hate to a particular body allows hate to circulate in an economic sense, working to differentiate some others from other others, a differentiation that is never ‘over,’ as it awaits for others who have not yet arrived [...] The circulation [of narrative] does its work: it produces a differentiation between ‘us’ and ‘them,’ whereby ‘they’ are constituted as the cause or the justification of ‘our’ feelings of hate.576 In this period of heightened tensions in Lyon, familiar rhetoric was an extremely powerful means of stimulating violent actions – be it in the “anarchic” form of riots and massacres, or in the elite exercise of power with public whippings and executions. As confessional strife escalated during the Wars of Religion, the type of fear that clung to the plague morphed to focus on a sense that communities were being punished by God for their pollution with heresy. The plague punished, and the plague purged. Fear of the plague was a core affective ingredient in making the spiritual sense of the heretical Protestant infection physical. As this affect became ever stickier during this hostile period, the conflation of the poor with both the plague and the physical infection of the city would have rubbed up against the affective rhetoric of fear that the radical Catholic League was disseminating through pamphlets, oral culture, and most publicly and emotionally, cleansing 573 574 575 576 See various discussions in Davis, Society and Culture; Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross; and Benedict, Rouen during the Wars of Religion. Rubys, Discours de la contagion, 19. Ahmed, “Affective Economies,” 122. Ibid., 123-24. “Hate” could also be replaced with “affect” here because Ahmed is discussing a particular example, but her theory extends to affect more generally. 183 processions of the city. In this, I am suggesting that the Lyonnais populace was affectively primed to accept the cleansing of the poor from their city streets through critical conflations about the dangers of infection. These were complex conflations, because the poor were themselves made instruments of purgation through their forced participation in the general processions. But these processions were already a form of capture, for the poor marched surrounded by the threat of the beadles’ sticks, and of confinement in the tower if they tried to abandon the parade. They were also flanked on all sides by organized bodies – the beadles followed along their sides, while they were preceded by the orphans, and followed by the mendicant orders, both singing litanies. As is evinced by idealized descriptions of these general processions, despite their mass, the recipients of the Aumône were little attended to in these accounts because they did not reify the desired processional structure. Instead, the orphans, as the Aumône’s trained and organized (not to mention unsullied) supplicants, served to embody the Aumône’s processional ideals.577 Processions were considered a necessary means of marking space, and performing identities – in this case, the poor performed their subjection to the Aumône, even if their performance was less than perfect. By deploying the recipients of the Aumône in general processions of the poor, the rectors made use of symbolics and affect that were already wellknown to the Lyonnais populace, as well as to the foreign observers in town for the fair. In this sense of familiar modes of affective dissemination, the very end of Vauzelle’s Police subsidiaire offers a final telling artifact of practice. For this publication finishes with a contrafactum that commemorates the great work of the Aumône of 1531: “Les Graces des Povre. Survenuz a Lyon. Sur le Chant. Monsieur Sainct Ladre de Valoys.” This title vaguely attempts to suggest that the huge group of 7000 poor recipients of the Aumône gathered together in song to celebrate their benefactors – but it is very unlikely that this was the case. Instead, I would argue that this contrafactum was a kind of standard Renaissance tool for memorializing – much like the contrafactum that we saw at the end of the 1578 Chevauchee. Such a practice would have allowed the ideal memory of the ephemeral event to enter into oral circulation, by the practical means of sticking it to a popular timbre. The poetry deploys tuneful huitains of heterometric verse in varied lines of eight, six, and four syllables, in the pattern 8/6/8/6/4/6/4/6, with alternating masculine and feminine rhymes. I include the entire text below because it so strikingly encapsulates the core celebratory arguments that Vauzelles made across his sermon in favor of a permanent Aumône: La gloyre a Dieu, grace a vous soit, Lyon de vostre aulmosne, Nostre povrete y receoit Refection tres bonne Sans vos mercys, 577 This is not to suggest that the Aumône’s plans with these ideal representatives went as desired or expected. One particular series of meetings in the ACh illustrates the ways in which the silences between ordinances and accounts of events must also be read. On one folio of the archives, there are directives to have the orphans parade hatless and shoeless in March; at a meeting soon thereafter, they decree not to have shoeless and hatless parades anymore. Clearly, something went awry (surely involving the orphans’ health) – but this remains basically unreported. See AM ACh E 25. 184 Helas plus de sept mille Fussent transis De faim, parmy la ville. Ce fu lan cinq cens trent ung Que de maincte frontieres, A Lyon recevroit chascun. En ces saisons trop chieres, Cinquante sols Les bleds on veoit vendre, Et les plus gros Ne scavoyent ou en prendre. Messieurs de Leglise en accords Avecques les notables, Ny espargnerent leurs tresors. Tant furent charitables, Que aulx bledz & grains Eut si bonne police A povre maincts Lordre fut fort propice Car en maincts lieux de la Cite, Fut laumosne ordonnee, Ou tous les jours la povrete Estoit rassasiee. Pour leur repos, Avoyent loges & granges, Ou estoyent clos Tant les natifz que estranges. O Lyon quelle Charite! O a dieu belle histoire! Par ceste riche poureté O que tu acquiers grant gloire! Dieu tu repais Aulx povre ou il souffre. Prens donc sa paix Quen cest aulmosne il te offre. Glory to God, grace be upon you, Lyon for your Aumône, Our poor have received Such good restitution Without your mercy Alas, more than seven thousand Would have been tormented By hunger, throughout the city. 185 It was in the year [one thousand] five hundred and thirty one That from far and wide, So many appeared in Lyon, During a time when prices were high, We saw wheat Selling for fifty sous, And even the greatest Were at a loss of how to get it. Gentlemen of the Church In concert with notables, Did not spare their treasuries. They were so charitable That wheat and grain Were so well organized For distribution to the poor All was ordered fairly. To the far reaches of the city, The Aumône was ordered, Such that every day the poor Were satiated. So that they could rest, There were lodges and granges, Where were enclosed Natives [of Lyon] as much as strangers. O Lyon what Charity! O what a beautiful story for God! By this rich poverty O how you have attained great glory! God repays The poor who suffer. Accept thus his peace When he offers you this Aumône. The timbre on which this “Graces des Povres” was based is perhaps the most telling aspect of this standard contrafactum. The song “Monsieur Sainct Ladre de Valoys” itself has been thus far untraceable, but its use here establishes an integral connection between the poor and contagion. For “Ladre” was the vernacular for Lazarus; and the Lazarus who was raised from the dead was sometimes confused and conflated during the medieval period with the biblical Lazarus that Jesus invented in a story to illustrate charity in the Gospel according to Luke. In this tale, a poor sickly man with ulcers asks for alms outside of a rich man’s house, which the rich man refuses; Jesus explains that, because of his lack of charity, the rich man will burn in hell, while, due to his earthly suffering, the poor man will rejoice in heaven.578 Because he was covered with ulcers, this Lazarus became the patron saint of lepers. The derived terms 578 Gospel of Luke 16:19-31. 186 “Ladrerie” and “Lazaret” were thus used to refer to relatively diverse hospitals that cared for victims of the main diseases that terrified early modern populations because of their (supposed) contagion: leprosy and the plague. The idea that leprosy was contagious even compelled the Aumône to restrict lepers from coming into the city, on pain of withdrawal of their weekly alms.579 Foucault’s argument that “poor vagabonds” (as well as criminals and “deranged minds”) would come to take up the positions of exclusion originally occupied by lepers highlights the depths of these relationships.580 These overlaps are essential to understanding the affective conflations between forms of contagion and suffering – conflations that are witnessed in the selection of the model for a song to commemorate the alleviation of those afflicted by poverty. The poor continued to be associated with this affective imagery of suffering and contagion, such that their role as the community’s supplicants became ambivalently colored with dis-ease. The Aumône’s orphans, on the other hand, saved from the infectious perils of poverty, came to represent the ideal supplicant community, cleansing an urban space that was putrid with heresy, through the discipline of song. With this grasp of how the Aumône’s practices related to current social issues, let us return to the 1589 procession of the poor during the “miserable and calamitous” phase that the Lyonnais notables perceived their city to be witnessing. This procession featured many of the same attributes as the yearly general processions of the poor – headed by one orphan bearing the crucifix (in the usual manner), the orphans paraded two-by-two, carrying candles, with the boys singing the litany, and the girls singing “Sainte-Marie, mère de Dieu, priés pour nous.” All of the rectors also participated, followed by the mendicant orders, and the beadles. Particularly repentant gestures were clearly in order, as the rectors uncharacteristically carried burning white candles, the orphans marched shoeless and hatless (in March), and the beadles processed without hats. Noticeably absent in this penitential procession, however, was the poor – the thousands of recipients of the Aumône. The radical Catholic city notables who met on March 5, 1589 to determine the best way to exhibit the city’s penitence and faith supposedly decided “unanimously” that the optimal protocol would be to parade the disciplined orphans, singing their litanies. The route that this procession would take is also telling: [...] we will leave from the Convent [of Saint Bonaventure], passing along the grand rue du Puys-Pelloux, straight to the Hôtel-Dieu on the Rhosne bridge, from there to [Notre Dame de] Confort, by rue Mercière, to the Church of Saint-Nizier, and, in returning, [we will follow rue de] la Grenette and the place des Cordeliers, back to the Convent [of Saint Bonaventure].581 Here, the orphans march across the latter half of the Corpus Christi procession route that was always lacking in the general procession of the poor (see Figure 4.4). Curiously, rather than visiting key Catholic sites – in particular, the entire left side of the Saône, including Saint Jean 579 580 581 For some reason, lepers were allowed to beg outside of the city, however. Notably, as far as the Lyonnais identity of the Aumône is concerned, if the Lyonnais leper colony was caught admitting any foreign lepers, their whole community would be struck from the rolls. AM ACh E4 fol. 25-50. Foucault, Madness and Civilization, 7. Ibid., “[...] l’on despartira dudict couvent, tirant à la grand rue du Puys-Pelloux, droict à l’Hostel-Dieu du pont du Rhosne, de la à Confort, par rue Mercière, jusques à l’esglise Sainct-Nizier, et, au retour, par la Grenette et place des Courdellier, jusques audict couvent.” 187 Cathedral, and the loci of the Church of Lyon, goes untouched – they encircle the entirety of the commercial district. The procession, religious in function, seems to have been oriented towards affectively eliciting the political support of the artisan and merchant population of the “Coté Nizier” as the city shifted into explicit allegiance with the Holy Catholic League. Figure 4.4: Poor Procession described in AM ACh in 1589 The Communitas of Chant Music-making was central in this procession and integral to all of the processions of the poor; for, before any symbols of faith or penitence could be made visible, the ancient chants would have marked out space beyond the physical reaches of the procession, as they rebounded and echoed through the narrow city streets of Lyon. The disciplined orphans and mendicant orders surrounded the thousands of Aumône recipients, singing their litanies and Ave Marias. But surely, though official accounts do not depict the throngs of poor singing the litany or the Ave Maria, it seems very likely that many of them sang along. According to accounts about the great wave of processions in the 1580s, vast numbers of faithful Catholics sang Ave Marias, Salve Reginas, and litanies while they marched.582 Participation in the procession may not have been voluntary for these poor recipients of the Aumône, but this does not preclude the possibility that they added their voices to the grand musical expressions of piety. 582 Hubert Meurier, Traicté de l’institution et vray usage des processions tant ordinarire, qu’extraordinaire, qui se font en l’Eglise Catholique, contenant ample discours de ce qui s’est passée pour ce regard en la Province de Champaigne, depuis le 22. de Juillet jusques au 25. d’Octobre, 1583 (Reims: Jean de Foigny,1584). Referenced in van Orden, “Children’s Voices,” 215. 188 The litanies and Ave Marias that were performed in these processions were, after all, essential to the communal practice of Catholicism. As Certeau has argued, prayer “carried within itself the presence of others” – church fathers and saintly exemplars, as well as fellow members of the religious community.583 To march while singing core Catholic prayers was to make this community explicit. These ancient chants became the most marked badge of Catholicity, deployed combatively to cleanse urban space, directed against the heretical infection of the body social. Ave Marias and litanies were also recognized by the entire population for their symbolic content, and very possibly, their meanings, particularly if parish priests followed synodal statutes from the thirteenth century onwards that directed them to explain the Latin prayers to their parishioners in the vernacular.584 The valence of these chants would also have been understood by foreigners in Lyon for the fairs, towards whom the general processions of the poor were partly aimed. The importance of such expressions of religious communitas is made explicit in the Catholic practice of exorcism, which Natalie Zemon Davis has characterized as “the liturgical event which gave the best expression to [the] Catholic image of community.”585 The same contingent of Catholic radicals who activated the 1589 poor procession and pushed for the city to join the League, propagandistically publicized an exorcism performed at the Franciscan convent by the preacher and theologian, Jean Benedicti, in 1582. The exorcism extended over several days, and huge crowds attended it, to witness the last of seven devils, one named “Frappan,” being exorcised from the body of a middle-aged woman, Pernette Pinay. An account of the exorcism was published in 1583 in Lyon by Benoist Rigaud, and it in, the power of the ancient chants is made palpable.586 The priest performs the Agnus Dei, and the Psalm Exurgat Deus & dissipentur inimici eius to torture Frappan, and he forces him to say the Sancta Maria, but Frappan stutters, refusing to utter “peccatoribus”: “Sancta Maria mater bei, bei, ora pro no, no, bis pecca, to to to, ta, ta, ta, bus, bus, bus...”587 But the communal power of ancient chants against such satanic invasions is made manifest as the priest “[...] said to [his] companions, let us sing the Symbol of Nice, against this erratic spirit, enemy of the faith.” 588 The Symbol of Nice, of course, referred to the Nicene (or Apostle’s) Creed – one of the very chants that was integral to all Catholic lives. In the most urgent expressions of Catholicism – whether driving devil spirits out of a singular Christian body, or sweeping heresy out of the social body through public penitence – the communal iteration of Catholic chants was vital. Singing these ancient chants as a group created a singular Catholic body, unified through the power of ritual song. The Catholic epistemology of ritual was based on the belief that rites effected change in the world. The communitas of chant effected change by unifying diverse bodies in sacred sound – chant that reverberated through the claustrophobic medieval streets of Lyon to coat the urban space with sacrality. This public 583 584 585 586 587 588 Michel de Certeau in Le Voyage mystique, quoted in Reinburg, French Books of Hours, 14. On these statutes, see Ibid., 88. Davis, “The Sacred and the Body Social,” 64. La Triomphante Victoire de la vierge marie sur sept malins esprits finalement chassés du corps d’une femme dans l’eglise des Cordeliers de Lyon. Laquelle histoire est enrichie d’une belle doctrine pour enten[n]dre l’astuce des diables (Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, 1583). Ibid., 39. Ibid., 29, “[...] dis-je a mes compagnons, chantons le Symbole de Nice contre c’est esprit vola[n]t, ennemy de la foy.” 189 affirmation of Catholicism was integral to the ethos of the poor processions, as a symbol that could echo amidst the raucous movements of thousands of marching bodies. The Final Silence of the Poor Foucault long ago described the enclosure of the poor, or what he called the Great Confinement, into great “hospitals” as an impulse belonging to the classical age, wherein “the Hôpital [...] will have not only the aspect of a forced labor camp, but also that of a moral institution responsible for punishing.”589 Emanuel Chill has demonstrated with more particularity how the country-wide drive to lock in the poor emerged from the self-negating ascetic impulses of the seventeenth-century secretive society, the Company of the Holy Sacrament.590 This elite body, encompassing pretty much all of the most influential movers and shakers in the project to alleviate poverty (for example, François de Sales, Vincent de Paul), had nodes across France working in concert towards a vision of enormous hospitals that would effectively force the lazy, immoral poor into productive work. This was not an impulse of the “Protestant work ethic,” but rather, one of post-Reformation Catholic spirituality, which also happened to facilitate mercantilist goals. As Chill asserts: The social attitudes which fostered the characteristically seventeenth-century mixture of charity and repression were not particular to the religious elite, but were shared by the agents of the monarchy and by the cultivated classes generally. The French Counter Reformation belongs to an iron age of violence and mass deprivation. French classical culture and the historiographic tradition which celebrates it conceal the harsh realities of the time by ignoring them [...] The typifying, elevating tendency of classic literature, its very social abstractness, suggest the existence of an underworld of oppression, famine, license, and revolt, beyond discussion.591 This tendency to efface the experience of the poor stretches back to their initial increasing presence with the urban expansion of the later fifteenth century. The impulse towards enclosing the poor was, in some ways, derived from a Catholic(-humanist) sense of charity – the kind of charity, for instance, that encouraged the tradition of giving beggars food and shelter over the Easter season. This was not a form of charity, however, that sought to restructure the Catholic economy of faith by eliminating the poor, the community’s special supplicants. The drive towards enclosure was also fueled by a desire to take the moral high-ground, positioning the poor as nefarious slobs. This sentiment saw the creation of ordinances throughout the century to force the people receiving the Aumône to work in hard labor, constructing city walls, or street cleaning, in order to receive their alms of bread.592 The belief that impoverished citizens could be 589 590 591 592 Foucault, Madness and Civilization, 59. Emanuel Chill, “Religion and Mendicity in Seventeenth Century France,” International Review of Social History 7 (1962): 400-425. Ibid., 424. Natalie Zemon Davis makes the point that this could have been a lot worse, as “in Rouen the healthy beggars worked in the shadow of the gallows, in Troyes under the strappado.” Society and Culture, 45. 190 spiritually saved through industriousness would become the dominant driver behind the Company of the Holy Sacrament’s plan to imprison the poor and force them to work; for, as Chill has shown, the compulsion was not an economic one (in the financial sense), as many of the hospitals actually lost money through the labor they had their prisoners doing.593 Subjection was a public phenomenon for the first century of the Aumône’s existence, through the massive general processions of the poor. The poor procession that took place in 1615, as they marched to their initial confinement, betrays an integral change to the environs occupied by such parades. The rectors had passed a resolution on November 29 to plant a cross at the site near Sainte-Hélène, where the construction of the “hôpital des pauvres enfermés” was planned. According to the archival account of the procession, it began at the Hôpital SaintLaurent, and moved across to the right side of the Saône, past the Jacobin monastery, NotreDame de Confort (where the Father Superior refused to have the cross set in their cloister), and southeast to the Hôpital Saint-Esprit: […] the poor, accompanied by the rectors of the Aumône and the Hôtel-Dieu and followed by a large number of people, left with a long wooden cross laden on the shoulders of several of the poor[;] the others with them, sang Litanies, and gave thanks to God for such a benefice. The cross was carried to the aforementioned location, and after being blessed by my Lord the Bishop, attended by the clergy, it was planted and raised to the great contentment of everyone, praising God for having begun this holy and good work.594 Carrying the great wooden cross as expected, the relationship between the poor and Christ was theatricalized as in all of the general processions of the poor. Yet the route that this procession took completely removed the poor from the urban space that they had laboriously marked for generations. For they followed a path that took them immediately out of the thickly inhabited areas of the city, away from the centers of commerce like the Rue Mercière and focal points of spirituality like Saint Jean Cathedral that they had normally visited (see Figure 4.5). As usual, the archival account characterizes the poor as a mass marching surrounded by the litanies of the faithful, parading encased in song to the parnassus of humanistic impulses of charity. The poor celebrating this confinement were, in fact, already provisionally enclosed in a building that was at a far remove from the city, the Hôpital Saint Laurent – the hospital which had served since the late fifteenth century as Lyon’s site for quarantine from the plague. General processions of the poor continued well into the seventeenth century in Lyon, but their format shifted towards increasingly explicit forms of marking and excluding the confined poor. As of 1614, when some of the poor were first enclosed in the old plague building, the Hôpital Saint Laurent, the confined poor were more distinctly surrounded by the regulated orphans, and they were conclusively denied entry to Saint Jean: 593 594 Chill, “Religion and Mendicity,” 403-05. AM ACh E 32, fol. 353-357, “lesdicts pauvres, accompagnés desdicts sieurs recteurs de l’Aulmosne et de l’Hostel-Dieu et suivis d’un grand nombre de peuple, sont despartis et chargé sur les espaules de plusieur d’iceulx pauvres ladicte croix de bois, de longue stature, les autres avec eulx, chantant les litanies, rendant grâces à Dieu d’un tel bénéfice. Icelle croix a esté portée sur ledict lieu, et après avoir esté bénite par mondict seigneur l’arcevesque, assisté desdicts sieurs du clergé, elle a esté plantée et eslevé au grand contentement d’ung chacun, louant Dieu d’avoir vu commencer cette saincte et bonne œuvre.” 191 The men and children will follow the children from la Chana, and the women and girls will march in front of the girls of Sainte Catherine, everyone as organized as possible; and once they have arrived in front of the big church of Saint Jean, the men and women will group together in the square, without entering into the archbishopric, like the other poor that receive the distributions, and forthwith they will retrace their path straight back to Saint-Laurent, led by those to whom they are charged.595 Figure 4.5: Poor Procession described in AM ACh in 1615 595 AM ACh E 32, fol. 320, “Les hommes et enfans suivront les enfans de la Chanal, et les femmes et filles marcheront au devant des filles de Saincte Catherine, le tout au meilleur ordre que faire se pourra; et estant arrivés au-devant la grand esglise Sainct-Jehan, tant lesdicts hommes que femmes se rangeront dans la place, sans entrer dans l’arcevesché, comme les aultres pauvres des distributions, et incontinent reprendre leur chemin droict à Sainct-Laurens, conduicts par ceulx qui en auront la charge.” The orphan children that were confined to Saint Laurent also marched separately from the children at La Chana. 192 Affective Subjection In a critique of disciplinary power, Foucault argues pointedly that discourse is an instrument of subjection: [I]n a society such as ours, but basically in any society, there are manifold relations of power which permeate, characterize and constitute the social body, and these relations of power cannot themselves be established, consolidated nor implemented without the production, accumulation, circulation and functioning of a discourse.596 The importance that Foucault gives to discourse in this configuration misses the mark in one key respect: affect. The circulation of discourse in early modern France was integral to its power; and what compelled discourse to circulate – particularly in the minimally media-saturated sixteenth century – was emotion. Protestants and the poor were both discursively rubbed up against the rhetoric surrounding fears of the plague; and the intensification of polemic and actions of cleansing during the Wars of Religion meant that this affect only amplified. Such fears could only be attached to bodies that were made manifest, and, in this regard, the very public processions of the poor facilitated their hyper-marking. Foucault argues that the confinement of the poor was enabled by the emergence of a silent social sensibility: There must have formed, silently, and doubtless over the course of many years, a social sensibility, common to European culture, that suddenly began to manifest itself in the second half of the seventeenth century; it was this sensibility that suddenly isolated the category destined to populate the places of confinement.597 In fact, vociferous practices propelled this “sensibility.” The Aumône’s processions were themselves incredibly noisy, as thousands of disorderly poor paraded, surrounded by singing orphans and mendicants, and the clanging of confraternity bells. Musical affective economies contributed substantially to the removal of the poor from the community; affect, musically demarcating bodies, had become an instrument of subjection. 596 597 Foucault, “Disciplinary Power and Subjection,” 229. Foucault, Madness and Civilization, 45. 193 Afterword: “Une jeune pucelle” goes to New France In 1639, Paul Le Jeune, the Jesuit superior of the mission in Canada wrote a letter back to France narrating the jubilation that had resonated through Québec when the colony was informed about the birth of the Dauphin, Louis XIV: “As soon as the word Dauphin left the mouth of the messengers, joy entered into our hearts, and thanksgiving into our souls [...] we sang the Te Deum laudamus, [and] prepared feux de joyssance.”598 As we have seen throughout this dissertation, royal celebrations typically featured these kinds of displays in France; importing these practices to the “New World” was in line with the Jesuits’ strong allegiance to the French monarchy in the seventeenth century. But such spectacles also aimed to impress the indigenous peoples with the power of the French sovereign. According to Le Jeune, the Huron people present were so awestruck by the festive eruptions that they “believed that the French empire reached the realm of fire, and that we could do as we pleased with the Element.”599 These initial celebrations were not adequate for such fortunate news, however, and a procession was soon organized that would have “ravished all of France if it had taken place in Paris”:600 On the glorious and triumphant day of the Assumption of the Holy Virgin […] our neophyte Christians came to hear Mass, to confess, and to take Communion. All of the other Savages in the environs of Québec got together, and we put everyone in the appropriate order […] As soon as the procession started, cannons erupted with such thundering that it put the fear of God into those poor Savages; we marched to the Hospital […] where the Savages kneeled down on one side, the French on another, and the Clergy in the middle; the Savages prayed together for the King, thanked God for giving him a Dauphin: they prayed for the Queen, and for all French people, and then for their own nation; then they sang the principle articles of our faith.601 Le Jeune’s account was more than biased: it was propaganda. Published in 1640 in Paris, 598 599 600 601 Relation de ce qui s’est passé en la Nouvelle France en l’année 1639. Envoyée au R. Pere Provincial de la Compagnie de Jesus en la Province de France. Par le P. Paul Le Jeune, de la mesme Compagnie, Superieur de la Residence de Kébec (Paris: Sebastien Cramoisy, 1640), 3, “Ce mot de Dauphin ne sortit pas si tost de la bouche des Messagers, que la joye entra dans nos coeurs, & les actions de graces dedans nos ames [...] on chante le Te Deum laudamus, on prepare des feux de joyssance.” All translations of the Relation are my own. Ibid., 4, “croyoient que l’empire des François s’étendoit jusques à la Sphere du feu, & que nous faisions de cet Element tout ce qui nous venoit en pensée.” Ibid., 5, “rauy toute la France si elle avoit paru dans Paris.” Ibid., 8, “Le jour dédié a la glorieuse & triomphante Assomption de la saincte Vierge fut choisi: Dés le grand matin nos Neophytes Chrestiens vindrent entendre la saincte Messe, & se confesser & communier. Tous les autres Sauvages qui estoient pour los es environs de Kebec se rassemblerent, nous les mismes dans l’ordre qu’ils devoient tenir […] Si tost que la Procession commença à marcher, les Canons firent un tonnerre qui donna une saincte frayeur à ces pauvres Sauvages; nous marchasmes à l’Hospital, où estans parvenus, tous les Sauvages se mirent à genoux d’un costé, les François de l’autre, & le Clergé au milieu; alors les Sauvages prierent tous ensemble pour le Roy, remercierent Dieu de ce qu’il luy avoit donné un Dauphin: Ils prierent encore pour la Reine, & pour tous les François, & en suitte pour tout leur nation; puis se mirent à chanter les principaux articles de nostre creance.” 194 the report was one of dozens of Relations written by the Jesuits in the “New World” that aimed to disseminate their religious, civilizing conquests, and to garner popular support for their missions. The Jesuits approached conversion and indoctrination in New France through the same techniques of communitas that they had deployed in (Old) France. Their mission was universal, in the sense that it was leveled at all people. The anthropologically-oriented practices that they pursued – learning indigenous languages, customs, and beliefs – were all about winning souls for Jesus. So they imported an arsenal of conversion tactics that had been forged in the fires of the Wars of Religion. As witnessed in the 1639 procession in Québec, Jesuits catechized indigenous peoples through song, a practice that was deployed throughout the colonies. The Jesuit rector of the Collège de la Trinité in Lyon, Michel Coyssard, in fact, heaped praise upon Saint Francis Xavier’s successful musical conversions, which made use of popular songs translated into indigenous languages.602 For all the copious missionary accounts of colonial encounter, the archive is silent when it comes to indigenous experience, for recorded stories were, of course, written by the colonizers. As with the archives of the Aumône Générale, however, such silence can often be pregnant with suggestion. Our prizing of written over oral history, in fact, is part of what has given us the impression of silence. For all of the demeaning discourse that has come down to us in missionary accounts, the nations of indigenous people in North America would have received Christian practices through their own extant epistemologies, cosmologies and ontologies. Missionaries may have attempted cultural genocide, but during these early stages of the colonial process, they were, in fact, very dependent upon indigenous knowledge, networks, and tolerance. This was an invasion, but it was also a reciprocal engagement. As scholars have only recently begun to explore, indigenous and French peoples used mutual (or “creative”) misunderstanding as an inventive mode of interaction.603 Evidence of such “creative misunderstandings” is rampant in the Jesuit Relations, and their narratives had serious impacts at home. As Olivia Bloechl has shown, music in situations of colonial contact had rupturous effects on politics and culture back on the continent. Christian discourses of music were profoundly altered as Europeans encountering the Other insisted on delimiting boundaries between “civil” and “savage” musics.604 Bloechl examines, for instance, how Protestant missionaries aligned indigenous musical practices with Catholic ones through a universal metaphysics that considered both to employ “diabolical” song.605 Music also served as a cultural go-between, as Catholic missionaries frequently noted how much indigenous peoples enjoyed making music. In 1638, Paul Le Jeune chronicled bands of “innocent little Savages” who enthusiastically recreated religious processions. His portrait is remarkably similar to the descriptions from the archives of the poor orphans in the processions of the Aumône Générale of Lyon: […] there aren’t many days when you won’t find a band of these little innocent [Savages] marching in order, one carrying the cross, the other carrying a banner, 602 603 604 605 Coyssard, Traicté de profit, 9-15. Richard White, The Middle Ground: Indians, Empires, and Republics in the Great Lakes Region, 1650-1815 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 52 Olivia Bloechl, Native American Song at the Frontiers of Early Modern Music (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). Ibid., 35-57. 195 and [still] others with candles à sauvage or à la naturelle, some of them singing, and the others following two by two, just as they have observed [others doing]: all of this shows us that Christianity is […] becoming established amongst these people.606 The musical practices that were deployed as techniques of communitas, as polemic, as conversion tactics, and towards subjection surrounding the Wars of Religion in Lyon are put into relief by the central role of music in the colonizing project. In the “New World” missionaries made use of these same practices as they encountered substantially different ways of being that they refused to accept as valid. They applied methods that they had established in the wars at home, in other words, to indigenous cosmological concepts. Most famously, the martyr Jean de Brebeuf wrote a contrafactum of the noel “Une jeune pucelle,” which itself was a contrafactum of the chanson “Une jeune fillette,” a timbre that was printed with a monophonic melody in Jehan Chardavoinne’s Recueil.607 Brebeuf’s contrafactum translated the story of the Nativity into the Wendat (Huron) language, complete with forest (rather than manger) imagery and the Algonquian Great Spirit “Gitchi Manitou” (rather than “God”) to create what is commonly known in Canada as the “Huron Carol.” The song witnessed a strange re-appropriation by settler Canadians as an exotically indigenous Christmas carol since it was translated into English in the twentieth century; it continues to be sung in mainstream Christian churches every Christmas season. The musical techniques of the Wars of Religion were thus carried forward, and initiated a legacy of colonial violence – an attempted ontological destruction of indigenous peoples that would come into full force in the nineteenth century.608 The ways in which this was initiated have received minimal musicological attention; but because music was as a potent affective component of “creative misunderstanding,” such a study could highlight how indigenous peoples of Canada experienced, rather than adopted, French Christian cosmologies and epistemologies. In situations of conflict, music has long been an operative force, effective because of its very emotional and ephemeral qualities – the same qualities which have meant that it has often been eschewed as a trivial byproduct of social life. In a review article on the state of research on “music in war, music for peace” in 2011, John O’Connell explained why he had chosen to 606 607 608 Relation des Jésuites contenant ce qui s’est passé de plus remarquable dans les missions des Pères de la Compagnie de Jésus dans la Nouvelle-France, 3 vols. (Québec: Augustin Côté, 1858) 1: 38, “[...] il y a peu de jour qu’une bande de ces petits innocens fut veüe marcher en ordre, l’un portoit une Croix, l’autre portroit une banniere, d’autres des chandeliers faits à sauvage ou à la naturelle, quelques-uns chantoient, et d’autres suivoient deux à deux comme ils avoient veu faire: tout cela nous apprend que le Christianisme [...] s’establie parmy ces peuple.” Chardavoinne, Recueil des plus belles et excellentes chansons, 137-38. “Une jeune fillette” was used by Lucas le Moigne as a timbre for the noël “Une jeune pucelle,” according to Julien Tiersot, Histoire de la chanson populaire en France (Paris: Librairie Plon, 1889), 237. I use Johann Galtung’s conceptualizations of violence here, which account for direct violence (physical infliction), systemic violence (imposed by institutional, governmental, etc. divisions within society), and cultural violence (beliefs, customs, practices that serve to justify other forms of violence). See Johann Galtung, “Cultural Violence,” Journal of Peace Research 27 (1990): 291-305. On the processes that constituted ontological destruction, not only cultural genocide, see Andrew Woolford, “Ontological Destruction: Genocide and Canadian Aboriginal Peoples,” Genocide Studies and Prevention 4 (2009): 81-97. 196 underline the significance of music in conflict (rather than music in conflict resolution) in a volume of essays emergent from a conference on “Discord: Identifying Conflict through Music, Resolving Conflict through Music”: “[there was] a general feeling at the meeting that music was often used by hegemonic bodies to disguise the tragedy of violence and the imbalance of power in discordant contexts.”609 This dissertation has addressed music for pacification (Chapter One), music for memorialization (Chapter Two), music for violence (Chapter Three), and music for subjection (Chapter Four). As we have seen, the practices that marshaled music for violence and music for subjection were treated as disciplinary tools by the hegemonic forces that imported them into the “New World.” The musical experiences that I have sought to foreground in this dissertation have sometimes been grim; this is because many dominant social affects that circulated during the Wars of Religion were themselves troubled. Music is no epiphenomenon in conflict, and its study can elucidate ephemeral emotional experiences that drive affinity, aversion, affection, and animosity. Exploring this sense of music as a productive instrument of social rupture and social regulation can thus key us into how affect not only slid across and stuck to, but also sank into bodies and ways of being. Deployed towards strange ends, the techniques of communitas and combat that helped to constitute the musical affective economies of sixteenth century Lyon apparently continued to resonate in “savage” surroundings. 609 John O’Connell, “Music in War, Music for Peace: A Review Article,” Ethnomusicology 55 (2011): 112-127 at 117. 197 Bibliography Primary Sources Aneau, Barthélemy. Chant Natal contenant sept noelz, un chant pastoural, et ung chant royal, avec ung mystère de la Nativité par personnages: composez en imitation verbale et musicale de diverses chansons, recueilliz sur l’Escripture Saincte, et d’icelle illustrez. Lyon: Sébastien Gryphe, 1539. ———. Lyon Marchant, satyre françoise sur la comparaison de Paris, Rohan, Lyon, Orléans et sur les choses mémorables depuys l’an mil cinq cens vint quatre, soubz allégories et énigmes par personnages mysticques: jouée au Collège de la Trinité à Lyon, 1541. Lyon: Pierre de Tours, 1542. ———. 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Cantique Nouveau, Contenant le discours de la guerre de Lyon, & de l’assistance que Dieu a faite à son Eglise audit lieu, durant le temps de son affliction de l’an 1562. Sur le chant de Pienne. Plus Un Cantique spirituel de la persecution des fideles Chrestiens, & de leur delivrance, les exhortant à rendre graces à Dieu, se voyans delivrez par sa divine providence, Sur le chant du Pseaume 99. Lyon: Jean Saugrin, 1563. Catalogue des noms des Messieurs les Recteurs et Administrateurs de l’Hôpital général de la Charité & Aumône générale de Lyon, depuis son institution. Lyon: L’imprimeri D’Aime Delaroche, seul Imprimeur … de l’Hôpital général de la Charité & Aumône générale de Lyon, 1742. Chanson Nouvelle a l’encontre des Huguenotz. Avec une chanson nouvelle, des triomphes & magnificences qui on esté faictes à Paris au Mariage du Roy de Navarre, & de tres illustre Princesse Madame Marguerite, soeur du Roy Charles à present regnant. Lyon: n.p., 1572. Chanson Nouvelle sur la paix par le peuple de France. Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, 1588. Chardavoine, Jehan. Recueil des plus belles et excellentes chansons en forme de voix de villes tirees de divers autheurs & Poëtes François, tant anciens que modernes. Paris: Claude Micard, 1575. Complainte et Chanson de la grand paillarde Babylonienne de Rome. Sur le chant de Pienne. Lyon: Jean Saugrin, 1561. Confession de la Foy Chrestienne. Lyon: n.p., 1562. Coq a l’asne des Huguenotz tuez. Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, 1572. Coyssard, Michel. Paraphrase des Hymnes et Cantiques Spirituelz pour chanter avecque la Doctrine Chrestienne. Lyon: Jean Pillehotte, 1592. ———. Sommaire de la Doctrine Chrestienne. Mis en vers françois: avec les Hymnes, & Odes spirituelles, qu’on chante devant, & apres la leçon d’icelle. Le tout reveu, & augmenté en ceste troisiesme Edition. Par Michel Coyssard, de la Compagnie de Jesus. Lyon: Jean Pillehotte, 1594. 199 ———. Traicté du profit que toute Personne tire de chanter en la Doctrine Chrestienne & ailleurs, Les Hymnes, & Chansons spirituelles en vulgaure: & du Mal qu’apportent les Lascives, & Heretiques. Lyon: Jean Pillehotte, 1608. ———. Les Hymnes Sacrez, et Odes Spirituelles. Pour chanter devant, & apres la Leçon du Catechisme, Avec un petit Traicté du profit, qu’on en tire. Lyon: Jean Pillehotte, 1608. Crespin, Jean. Livre des Martyrs, qui est un recueil de plusieurs Martyrs qui ont enduré la mort pour le Nom de nostre Seigneur Iesus Christ, depuis Iea[n] Hus iusque à ceste année present M.D.LIIII. L’utilité de ce recueil est amplement demonstrée en le preface suyvante. Geneva: Jean Crespin, 1554; and Lyon: Michel Jove, 1562. ———. Actes des Martyrs déduits en sept livres. Geneva: Jean Crespin, 1564. ———. Histoire de Martyrs Persecutez et mis à mort pour la verite de l’Evangile. Geneva: P. Aubert, 1619. Declaration des Consulz, Eschevins, Manans et Habitans de la ville de Lyon, sur l’occasion de la prise des armes par eux faicte, le vingtquatriesme Febvrier 1589. Avec les Articles de la resolution par eux prinse sur les occasions des presents troubles. Lyon: Jean Pillehotte, 1589. Declaration du Roy, sur la mort de l’Admiral, ses adherans & complices, Avec tresexpresses defences à tous Gentils-hommes & autres de la Religion pretendue reformee, de ne faire assemblee ne presches, pour quelque occasion que ce soit. Lyon: Michel Jove, 1572. Désiré, Artus. Contrepoison des cinquante chansons de Clement Marot, Faussement intitules par luy PSALMES DE DAVID, Fait & composé de plusieurs bonnes doctrines, & sentences preservatives d’Heresie. Lyon: Michel Jove, 1562. Discours du Massacre de Ceux de la Religion Reformee, fait à Lyon, par les Catholiques Romains, le vingthuictieme du mois d’Aoust & jours ensuyvans, de l’an 1572 […] Avec une amiable remonstrance aux Lyonnois lesquels par timidité & co[n]tre leur proper conscience continuent à faire hommage aux idoles. s.l.: s.n., 1574. Discours sur les causes de l’execution faicte és personnes de ceux qui avoyent conjuré contre le Roy & son Estat. Lyon: Michel Jove, 1572. Du Bellay, Joachim. La deffence et illustration de la langue francoise. Paris: Arnoul L’Angelier, 1552. Farce nouvelle d’ung savetier nomme Calbain: fort joyeuse: lequel se maria a une savetiere: a troys personnages: cestassavoir. Calbain. La femme. Et le galland. Lyon: Barnabé Chaussard, 1548. 200 Fleur des Chansons Nouvelles Traittans partie de l’amour, partie de la guerre, selon les occurrences du temps present. Composees sur chants modernes fort recretifs. Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, 1580. Fleur de Toutes les Plus Belles Chansons, et plus amoureuses qui se soyent faictes, dont plusieurs n’ont encores esté Imprimées. Lyon: Papillon, 1596. Fontanon, A. Les Edicts et ordonnances des rois de France depuis Louis VI. 4 vols. Paris, 1611. Guéroult, Guillaume. Premier Livre des Chansons Spirituelles, Nouvellement composees par Guillaume Gueroult, & mises en Musique par Didier Lupi Second. Dont l’Indice trouverez en la page suyvante. Lyon: Godefroy & Marcellin Beringen, 1548. ———. Premier Livre des Psaumes, Cantiques, et Chansons Spirituelles, traduictz & composees, bonne partie par G. Gueroult. & autres nommez en leur lieu. Et mis en musique a une et a quatre parties la plus part par G. De la Moeulle dict de Geneve, Chantre en l’Eglise de la dicte Cité. Geneva: Guillaume Guéroult and Simon du Bosc, 1554. La Fleur des noelz novellement imprimez faictz et composez a l’honneur de la nativité de Jesuchrist et de la Vierge Marie sa benoiste mere lesquelz sont moult beaulx et de nouveaux composez. [Lyon: Jacques Moderne, ante-1535]. La Grotte, Nicolas de. Chansons de P. de Ronsard, Ph. Desportes, et autres mises en musique par N. de la Grotte. Paris: Adrian Le Roy & Robert Ballard, 1569. La Magnificence de la Superbe et Triumphante entree de la noble & antique Cité de Lyon faicte au Treschestien Roy de France Henry deuxiesme de ce Nom. Et à la Roye Catherine son Espouse le XXIII. de Septembre M.D.XLVIII. Lyon: Guillaume Rouille, 1549. La Police de l’Aulmosne de Lyon. Lyon: Sebastien Gryphius, 1539. La Triomphante Victoire de la vierge marie sur sept malins esprits finalement chassés du corps d’une femme dans l’eglise des Cordeliers de Lyon. Laquelle histoire est enrichie d’une belle doctrine pour enten[n]dre l’astuce des diables. Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, 1583. Le Grand Bible de Noelz tant vieux que nouveaux. Composez de plusieurs Autheurs, tant du present que de passé, lesquelz on chante vulgairement de l’advenement du jour que Nostre Seigneur Jesus Christ fut né de la Vierge Marie. Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, [c. 1570s or 1580s]. Le grand triumphe faict à l’entrée du Treschrestien et tousjours victorieux Monarche, Henry second de ce nom Roy de France, en sa noble ville et cité de Lyon. Et de la Royne Catherine son espouse. Paris: pour B. de Gourmont, 1548. 201 Le Jeune, Claude. Dodecacorde Contenant Douze Pseaumes de David, mis en musique selon les douze modes. La Rochelle: Pierre Haultin, 1598. Le Parangon des Chansons Contenant plusieurs nouvelles & delectables chansons que oncques ne furent imprimees au singulier prouffit & delectation de Musiciens. 11 vols. Lyon: Moderne, 1538-42. Le Recueil de Plusieurs Belles Chansons nouvelles & moderne recueillies de plusieurs Autheurs. Lyon: Papillon, 1596. Le Recueil de Plusieurs Chansons Nouvelles, Avec Plusieurs autres Chansons de guerres, & d’amours, plaisantes & recreatives, qui n’ont jamais esté imprimees jusques à present: nouvellement composees par divers Autheurs. [Rigaud]: Lyon, 1571. Le Roy, Adrian. Livre d’Airs de Cour miz sur le Luth. Paris: Adrian Le Roy & Robert Ballard, 1571. Les nouelz faitz a lonneur de jhesucrist. Et sont ordonnez comment on les doit chanter. [Lyon]: Pierre Mareschal et Barnabé Chaussard, [1504 or 1506]. Malingre, Pierre. Noelz nouveaux. Musiciens amateurs des Cantiques. Au nom de Dieu cha[n]tez noelz nouveaulx Lesqu[e]lz sont faictz sur les vieulx & antiq[ue]s: Je vous supply delaissez les lubriques: Ne cha[n]tez point vraya[n]t co[m]me nos veaulx. [M]ieux cha[n]tre ne veult poit deux naveaux. Recordez vous q[ue] Dieu l’humble coeur En foy contrict. Note cela Chanteur. [Neuchâtel: Pierre de Vingle, 1533]. ———. Chansons nouvelles demontrantz plusieurs erreurs et faulsetez, desquelles les paovre monde est remply par les ministre de Satan. [Neuchâtel]: [Pierre de Vingle], 1534; and Geneva, n.p., 1535. Mersenne, Marin. Harmonie Universelle: contenant la théorie et la pratique de la musique où il est traité des consonances, des dissonances des genres, des modes, de la composition, de la voix, des chants, & toutes sortes d’instrumens harmoniques. 2 vols. Paris: Ballard, 1636-37. Meurier, Hubert. Traicté de l’institution et vray usage des processions tant ordinarire, qu’extraordinaire, qui se font en l’Eglise Catholique, contenant ample discours de ce qui s’est passée pour ce regard en la Province de Champaigne, depuis le 22. de Juillet jusques au 25. d’Octobre, 1583. Reims: Jean de Foigny, 1584. Montenay, Georgette de. Emblems ou Devises Chrestiennes Composees par Damoiselle Georgette de Montenay. Lyon: Jean Marcorelle, 1571. Navarre, Marguerite de. Marguerites des Marguerites des Princesses, Tresillustre Royne de Navarre. Lyon: Jean de Toures, 1547. 202 Noelz & Chansons Nouvellement composez tant en vulgaire Françoys que Savoyien dict Patoys. Par M. Nicolas Martin Musicien en la Cité saint jean de Morienne en Savoys. Lyon: Macé Bonhomme, 1556. Noel nouveau composez par Sire Thomas le Vaillant a l’honneur de l’annunciation de la vierge Marie, nativité, et passion resurrection et assention de son benoist filz Jhesu Christ. Faict sur le chant de Maistre Thomas tout doulx tout doulx. [Lyon: Jacques Moderne, ante1535]. Noel nouueau, fort plaisant & recreatif, composé par le Masconnois. Lyon: Antoine du Rosne, [c. 1561]. Noelz nouveaulx faictz et compose a l’honneur de la nativite de nostre seigneur Jesuchrist & de sa tresdigne mere Marie en facture honneste sur plusieurs cha[n]tz tos nouueaulx lesquels ne furent iamais imprime que ceste presente anne. [Lyon: Jacques Moderne, 1535]. Noelz nouveaulx sur tous les aultres composez allegoriquement selon le temps qui court Sur aucunes graves cha[n]sons. Auec le noel des eglises & villaiges du Lyo[n]nois non jamais que a present imprimez. Lyon: Claude Nourry, [1515]. Noelz nouueaux Nouuellement faitz & co[m]posez a lhonneur de la natiuite de Jesuchrsit & de sa tresdigne mere Marie en facture honneste sur plusieurs cha[n]tz tous nouueaulx q[ue] jamais ne fure[n]t imprimes q[ue] a ceste presente annee, Lyon: Olivier Arnoullet, n.d. Noelz nouvellement composez a l’honneur de la nativite de nostre saulveur et redempteur Jesuchrist qui se chantent sur le cha[n]t de plusieurs belles chansons. Lyon: Claude Nourry, [post-1528]. Noelz vieux et nouveaux en l’honneur de la nativité de Jesus Christ et de sa tresdigne mere. Lyon: Jean de Tournes, 1557. Paradin, Guillaume. Memoires de l’Histoire de Lyon, Par Guillaume Paradin de Cuyseaulx, Doyen de Beaujeu. Avec une table des choses memorables contenues en ce present livre. Lyon: Antoine Gyphius, 1573. Pontoux, Claude de. Gelodacrye amoureuse, Contenant plusieurs Aubades, Chansons, Gaillardes, Pavanes, Bransles, Sonnets, Stances, Madrigales, Chapitres, Odes, & autres especes de Poësie Lyrique. Par Claude de Pontoux, à Paris. Paris: Nicolas Bonfont, 1579. Pseaumes de David, mis en rhythme francoise par Clement Marot, & Theodore de Besze, avec Nouvelle et facile methode pour chanter chacun couplet des pseaumes sans recours au premier, selon le chant accoustumé en l’Eglise, exprimé par notes compendieuses 203 composées en La Preface de l’Autheur d’icelles. [Geneva]: Pierre Davantès, 1560. Recueil de la Chevauchee, Faicte en la Ville de Lyon: Le dixseptiesme de Novembre. 1578. Avec tout l’Ordre tenu en icelle. Mulieris bonae, beatus vir. A LYON, Par les Trois Suppost. Lyon: [Guillaume Testefort, Pierre Ferdelat et Claude Bouilland, 1578]. Recueil de plusieurs chansons spirituelles tant vielles que nouvelles avec le chant sur chascune: afin que le Chrestien se puisse esjouir en son Dieu & l’honorer: au lieu que les infidelles le deshonorent par leurs chansons mondaines & impudiques. [Geneva]: n.p., 1555. Recueil Faict au Vray, de la Chevauchee de l’Asne, faicte en la ville de Lyon: Et commencee le premier jour du moys de Septembre, Mil cinq cens soixante six: Avec tout l’Ordre tenu en icelle. Mulieris bonae, Beatus vir. A LYON, Par Guillaume Testefort. Lyon: Guillaume Testefort, [1566]. Relation de ce qui s’est passe en la Nouvelle France en l’année 1639. Envoyée au R. Pere Provincial de la Compagnie de Jesus en la Province de France. Par le P. Paul Le Jeune, de la mesme Compagnie, Superieur de la Residence de Kébec. Paris: Sebastien Cramoisy, 1640. Ronsard, Pierre de. Remonstrance au peuple de France. Je vous prie freres, de prendre garde à ceux qui font dissensions & scandales contre la doctrine que vous avc apprinse, & vous retirez d’eux. Lyon: Michel Jove, 1572. Rubys, Claude de. Discours de la contagion de peste qui a esté ceste presente année en la ville de Lyon, Contenant les causes d’icelle, l’ordre, moyen, & police tenue pour en purger, nettoyer & delivre la ville. Lyon: Jean Dogerolles, 1577. ———. Histoire véritable de la ville de Lyon, Contenant ce qui a esté obmis par Maistres Symphorien Champier, Paradin,& autres, qui ce devant ont escript sur ce subject: Ensemble ce, en quoy ils se sont forvoyez de la verité de l’histoire, Et plusieurs autres choses notables, concernans l’histoire universelle, tant Ecclesiastique que prophane, ou particuliere de France. Lyon: Bonaventure Hugo, 1603. Saconay, Gabriel de. Discours des premiers troubles avenus à Lyon, avec l’apologie pour la ville de Lyon, contre le libelle faucement intitulé, La juste & saincte defence de la ville de Lyon. Par M. Gabriel de Saconay, Praecenteur & Conte de l’eglise de Lyon. Lyon: Michel Jove, 1569. Sommaire de tous les recueils des chansons tant amoureuses que musicales. Lyon: Benoist Rigaud, 1579. Suyte du Premier Livre des chansons spirituelles. Contenant cinq chansons composees par cinq Escoliers detenus prisonniers à Lyon pour le tesmoignage de nostre Seigneur Jesus Christ, en l’an 1553, au moy de Juing: & qui depuis souffrire[n]t mort cruelle soustenans 204 constamment la querelle de l’Evangile / D’avantage y avons adiousté quelques autres Chansons spirituelles, comme la fin du livre vous enseignera. MDXXXXXIIII. Geneva: Guillaume Guéroult and Simon du Bosc, 1554. [Vauzelle, Jean de]. Police Subsidiaire a celle quasi infinie multitude des povres survenuz a Lyo[n] sur le Rosne/ lan Mil cinq ce[n]s xxxi. 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