by Tim Rayborn
Why is all of this important for us, other than being ridiculously gruesome? Well, the arts changed pretty dramatically as well, especially painting and music. In fact, both began the long trek to the Renaissance style. This was the century of Petrarch and Boccaccio, Chaucer and Langland, the great French composer Guillaume de Machaut, and artists such as Giotto (who died before the horrors of the plague) and his pupils (who lived through it). Turbulent times invariably lead to innovation, and for all of the horror of the mid-century, it upset the established order so completely that change was forced on everyone. This chapter looks at music in that terrible time, from flagellants whipping themselves in eerie processions while singing penitential hymns, to harsh criticisms of church and state in popular music, to the strange sounds of the ars subtilior, an avant-garde French musical movement from the end of the century that produced songs unlike any heard before or since.
The flagellants and their gruesome spectacles
The flagellants were part of a movement that began in the thirteenth century as a show of piety among common people. Such things are often termed “popular movements,” though the modern reader probably will have a hard time figuring out why this one was ever popular. Self-flagellation, or whipping, had been a common act of penitence in Christian practice for centuries; it was particularly endorsed by an Italian cardinal named Peter Damian in the eleventh century. But the flagellants elevated it (or brought it down, depending on your view) to a whole new level. Traveling through towns and making a public spectacle, they would sing dark hymns and whip themselves using scourges, rather like the cat o’ nine tails. Each of these tails had a knot in it, and sharp nails were sometimes set into these knots. The flagellants’ bloodstained clothing and cries of pain were a part of the whole gruesome spectacle.
First appearing in Italy, the practice was somewhat spontaneous and did not have Church backing. It was eventually condemned and banned by the pope in 1261 because participants were making heretical claims, like the idea that participating in one of these masochistic processions was a valid way for sins to be forgiven. This was an absolute no-no, since the Church had an exclusive claim to that right. In any event, the movement didn’t die out completely but migrated north over the Alps into Germany, where similar conflicts with authority occurred.
Some of the wind eventually was taken from its sails until—you guessed it—the arrival of the Black Death. From that time on, the flagellants became a major movement across Europe. Believing that the plague was a divine punishment for their sins, they were determined to be as openly and painfully penitent as they could. Dressed in white, they would travel from town to town and set up camps nearby. Their displays took a variety of forms. In one example, it was said that they began their rituals with the reading of a letter from an angel authorizing their actions. The singing of hymns followed, while they fell to their knees and whipped themselves in rhythm to the music.
This grim spectacle was beheld and feared by many, with masters in charge who demanded obedience from the followers. Surprisingly, quite a few rushed to join the movement, which took on the trappings of a religious brotherhood. Many must have felt that the only way to appease an angry God was through this act of self-torture. In the absence of any proper medical knowledge to stop the plague from spreading, it had to be worth a try. The irony, of course, is that by traveling widely, many flagellants invariably became infected with the plague and spread it farther. Indeed, at some point they went from being welcomed in towns and cities to being feared instead.
Although Church officials initially permitted limited processions as a legitimate expression of an appeal to God to end the plague, they grew concerned as the movement got out of control and started spouting all sorts of dangerous ideas. In an attempt to reassert that control, in 1349 Pope Clement VI officially condemned the flagellants in a papal bull (a proclamation, not a large male bovine).
This time he wasn’t messing around. The flagellants were condemned as heretics, and in the next couple of decades more than a few were burned at the stake, usually the leaders, who could say some pretty outlandish things. For example, Flemish and German flagellants claimed that the Holy Roman Emperor Frederick II (who had been an enemy of the pope and had died way back in 1250) was going to be resurrected. One actually claimed to be Frederick and said he had come to prepare the world for the impending Judgment Day. The Inquisition intervened in 1369, and he, like his goals, went up in flames in his own personal last judgment. The Church intensified its work, burning hundreds of flagellants and members of similar groups by the early fifteenth century in the hopes of stopping the movement completely. It lingered on into the Renaissance, however, arising whenever there were tough times—which, of course, was often.
A key component of this movement was the singing of hymns, and the flagellation itself was a kind of grotesque accompanying percussion. It makes sense from a musical point of view: large numbers of people singing the same tune do much better if there is a definite rhythm that holds the piece together. The sound of scourges hitting flesh provided an effective, if horrid, way to keep them on track.
Interestingly, some of these songs survive. In Germany the participants were known as Geissler—simply the German word for flagellant—and their songs as Geisslerlieder. A chronicler named Hugo von Reutlingen wrote down the words and music to six of these songs in about 1349. The music is simple enough and easy to memorize. Some melodies may have been drawn from existing popular songs, while others may have been folk hymns. The words were often in vernacular languages rather than in Latin, because they were songs of the common people. The texts were penitential in nature and spoke of praying for deliverance or resisting the devil. One declares:
Now approaches the deluge of evil.
Let us flee from burning Hell.
Lucifer is an evil companion.
Whomever he seizes, he smears with pitch.
Therefore we want to shun him.
These were certainly not memorable art songs, and they had no place in courtly society or the realm of medieval church music. That they survive at all is remarkable given the controversial nature of the flagellants and the general turmoil of the time. They provide an interesting window into the tortured minds of those faced with a horror beyond comprehension, those who knew of nothing else they could do but try to appease the wrathful deity who had sent such an awful punishment for their many sins.
Kyries: lovely music for awful occasions
Most listeners of classical music are aware of musical settings of the standard texts for the Catholic mass. These sections are the Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus, and Agnus Dei—together known as the Ordinary because they are repeated each day—with additional texts and music for a given saint’s feast or other celebration.
The Kyrie is a simple Greek text repeating the words, “Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy.” The remaining four sections are in Latin. The Gloria is a hymn proclaiming the glory of God; the Credo is the testimony of Christian faith, also known as the Nicene Creed, formulated in the fourth century; the Sanctus is another hymn glorifying God; and the Agnus Dei is an invocation of Christ: “Lamb of God, you who take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.”
Most of the great composers seem to have tried their hands at composing mass music at one time or another: Bach’s B-Minor Mass, Mozart’s Requiem, and Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis are three magnificent examples. Settings of the Ordinary have a long history. Originally anonymous compositions, from the fourteenth century onward these sections started being set to music by specific composers—beginning with Guillaume de Machaut, the greatest composer of his age. By the Renaissance, these mass settings were often soaring, beautiful works of complex melodic lines interweaving with each other and producing exquisite results. Exceptional examples can be found among the works of Josquin des Prez, Victoria, Palestrina, and many others.
We like to think of the Kyrie as a sweet, often inspiring piece. With its gentle prayer ask
ing for the Lord and Christ to have mercy, it seems to embody the Christian message, exalt forgiveness, and serve as a logical opening for the rest of the mass. But this was not always the case. Medieval Kyries could be vigorous, even aggressive. Based in the Gregorian chant tradition, they sought to glorify God and, just as importantly, to remind everyone who was in charge.
Intended to inspire bravery and whip up warlike feelings, Kyries were sung by armies going into battle often as a prayer for strength before slaughtering the enemy. The crusaders most certainly would have heard them sung by priests and probably taken part in the singing themselves. Before the final assault to retake Jerusalem from the Muslims during the First Crusade in July 1099, the crusaders marched barefoot around the city walls (ouch!) singing psalms, celebrating mass, and hearing the blowing of trumpets, probably self-consciously recalling Joshua and the battle of Jericho. Although mocked by the inhabitants, the music helped to inspire the crusaders’ sense of divine mission. They recaptured Jerusalem on July 15 and proceeded to butcher most of the inhabitants. Amidst the carnage a mass was celebrated at the Holy Sepulcher, and there was much singing in thanks for the slaughter, while blood ran in the streets.
Kyries were also sung for executions, particularly those of heretics such as the flagellants. The most common method of killing was burning, a horrid death. The Church itself was not permitted to carry out executions, so they used a technicality to get around this restriction. The Inquisition would try and ultimately find the defendant guilty and then turn over the condemned to secular authorities (kings, princes, nobility, etc.) who would carry out the sentence. But the Church officials and other clergy usually attended the burning, of course, and a Kyrie chant may have been used as a prayer asking for God to forgive the sins of the heretic.
The condemned were most often given the chance to recant and embrace the faith before the sentence was carried out. Some did, though this did not free them; they faced a life in prison, which would undoubtedly be a short one given the wretched conditions of most medieval dungeons. If they held on to their beliefs and refused to give in, as many surprisingly did, the Kyrie chanted by monks would be the last music they would hear in this life.
During the fourteenth century Kyries were also likely sung by the flagellants as part of their penitential pleas, as well as by other groups of sufferers eager to try anything that might stave off the epidemic; their pleas mostly went unanswered.
The Fawn-Colored Beast: anti-establishment satire
The Roman de Fauvel (“The Romance of Fauvel”) is a strange and magnificent work of satirical music and poetry dating from early fourteenth-century France. It condemns corruption in authority, whether in the Church or the state. It was produced over a period of years, and in a way inaugurated the new musical style that was developing, the ars nova (more on that later in this chapter). A hugely important collection, it is a long poem interspersed with more than 150 pieces of music, both monophonic (for a solo singer) and polyphonic (in parts). The music came from contemporary and older sources, spanning over one hundred years of French musical creativity. Indeed it is the most important musical manuscript surviving from the time. Though it was written before the onset of the calamities that pummeled the rest of the century, it already reflected existing troubles in politics and religion.
The political situation in France at the time was, frankly, pretty horrible. The first twenty years of the century witnessed a number of conflicts. King Philip IV was known as the Fair, which may have referred to his complexion or it may have been ironic. He was harsh, greedy, and had an ongoing feud with Pope Boniface VIII (himself no prize), even going so far as to have said pope arrested. For much of the second half of the fourteenth century there was more than one pope and, to put it mildly, they and their respective followers didn’t get along very well.
Philip aggressively suppressed the Knights Templar, executed their leaders, and confiscated their wealth. He expelled the Jews from France in a heartless move, and two of his daughters-in-law were involved in a scandal that rocked the establishment. Indeed, their accused lovers were tortured, flayed (that means had their skin removed, and yes, that was a common enough torture then), and executed. Fate seemed to have had the last laugh, as Philip died in a hunting accident in November 1314. This was only months after Jacques de Molay, the last Master of the Templars, cursed both Philip and Pope Clement V as he was about to be burned at the stake.
Needless to say, certain French courtiers and other bigwigs were pretty tired of the scandals and the violence that only seemed to be getting worse. Fauvel was a reaction to all of these troubles. It called out abuses of power by various other nobles—along with clergy, friars, and anyone else living large and behaving badly—especially those who rose in social station too quickly and took power that was not rightly theirs.
So, why would such a critical work be called a “romance”? Well, the word as used in medieval literature did not mean what it does today. While love could certainly feature in the tale, a romance was primarily a type of narrative characterized by a hero or knight, his quest, his love for a lady, allegorical and symbolic characters (who often imparted moral lessons), and the idealization of chivalry, among other topics.
Fauvel makes fun of the romance genre. The main character in this work is represented as a horse or a donkey. His name is an acrostic for the vices that were certainly present in the court and elsewhere: Flatterie (Flattery), Avarice (Greed), Vilenie (Guile), Variété (Inconstancy), Envie (Envy), and Lâcheté (Cowardice). The letters “u” and “v” are interchangeable in Latin and other Romance languages. In an additional play on words, the word fauvel can also mean “veiled lie.”
Fauvel has ambition and pride. He does not want to remain in his lowly stable forever, so he schemes up a way to get moved into his master’s room in the great house. Once there, he has it converted to suit his equine tastes, and instead of driving him out, nobles and clergy are now coming to him with praise and service, giving in to corruption. The Latin song Floret fex favellea declares:
Fauvel’s dregs are flourishing;
The world is changing
The curia [Church administrators] becomes like iron
And Fauvel is exalted
Today every poor person is the object of contempt …
The multitude congratulates
The adored animal
Fauvel ascends to power, and his courtiers include such allegorical lowlifes as Envy, Sloth, Deceit, and Perjury, represented as characters. The message relayed here is easy enough to see; it is a commentary on the awful state of affairs in the French government and church at the time. Indeed, those that oppose this corruption oppose Fauvel, as the French song Porchier mieus makes clear:
I would rather be a swineherd
Than curry Fauvel
I would rather let myself be flayed.
I have no interest in his money
And I do not prize his gold.
The Lady Fortune, one of these allegorical characters, favors Fauvel for the moment, and so he prospers. She is most often represented in medieval art with the Wheel of Fortune, which was a popular symbolic image throughout the Middle Ages; sometimes you’re on top, and sometimes it’s crushing you. The piece O varium observes:
O fickle, ever-changing Fortune …
You cause uncertainty,
However, perversely raising the poor man
Up out of the dung
And lifting Fauvel to the sky
Knowing that Lady Fortune only favors him temporarily, Fauvel desires to marry her to secure a safe fate. She naturally resists but offers instead the figure of Vainglory as a bride more suited to him. The wedding is grand, and Fauvel invites many more allegorical figures, such as Fornication, Adultery, and Hypocrisy. A group of Virtues attends as well—Goodness, Repentance, Humility, and many others—and fights the Vices in a mock tournament the following day.
Fauvel and his bride retire to the bedchamber, while outside revelers celebrate by m
aking noise and singing dirty little songs and snippets of tunes, featuring such charming lyrics as “Lady if your oven is hot,” “Your beautiful mouth will kiss my ass,” and “Thirty-four moldy farts.”
At the tournament the next day, the Vices are defeated one after another. Lady Fortune predicts that Fauvel will one day fall, but not before doing considerable damage to the land. Fauvel and Vainglory will produce many children, little Fauvels that will run rampant and scatter vice and corruption everywhere. The poem ends by noting that many fear the damage and ruin that Fauvel and his offspring are spreading throughout France, but the author is confident that it will end one day. The poem’s final lines have a sentiment that musicians would appreciate: “Now I need a drink of wine. God! Let me have it!”
Although this strange masterpiece of words and music was quite controversial at the time for daring to ridicule the court and Church, it survived and was written down in a beautifully illustrated manuscript. We don’t quite know how it was intended to be performed, or even whether it was performed. It may have been done as a kind of early opera, with a narrator reading the main poem and pausing for the vocal pieces to be sung as interludes; instruments were probably also used. Maybe different readers recited the voices for different characters. Given its length, it would have needed to be performed over the course of several evenings, perhaps as after-dinner entertainment.
The Roman de Fauvel represents a growing awareness of institutional corruption and the attempts to speak out against it, though obviously within limits; it was written under the patronage of certain nobles to attack other nobles. It was not a revolutionary work in the sense of trying to overthrow the established order, but its authors had no problems holding up certain authorities to ridicule and explicitly hoping for better times to come. Unfortunately, as we’ve already seen, the fourteenth century would inflict a lot of terrible suffering before things would improve.