In Plutarch, I read that it was Plato’s opinion—an opinion unanimously shared by all the sages of that period—that music’s first and most important task was to give thanks to the gods. Not without reason, they believed for that reason, that a well-regulated music given to Earth by Heaven … could not be better returned by men [to the gods] than through the harmony of well-matched voices.
—Tarquinio Merula, from the dedication of Il terzo libro delli salmi et messa concertati, Opus 18 to Father Evangelista Commenduli, signed ‘Venice, 20 July 1652.’
This is perhaps Goethe’s most famous phrase: “In der Beschränkung zeigt sich erst der Meister” (“It is in the limitation of means that a master expresses himself”). How a truly great artist achieves the greatest possible expression with limited means is demonstrated by the Cremonese composer, organist, and violinist Tarquinio Merula (1595-1665) with his haunting “spiritual song” ‘Hor ch’è tempo di dormire’ (‘Now it’s time to go to sleep’). In this spiritual lullaby (‘Canzonetta spirituale sopra alla nanna’), printed in Venice in 1638 in the collection Curtio precipitato et altri capriccii, Opus 13, the Virgin Mary sings the infant Christ to sleep, already fully aware of the suffering and gruesome death on the cross that awaits Him. The vision of her suffering Son cuts like a sword through Mary’s soul, and she must encourage herself again and again to sing the lullaby to her child like a normal mother. Finally, she finds peace as she contemplates the sleeping child with her head bowed.
Let us first consider the addition ‘sopra alla nanna’ (‘on a lullaby’). ‘Nanna’ is a sound imitation of the meaningless syllables on which mothers sing a tune to reassure their child, that the child may fall asleep. But there is possibly also an etymological connection with the Latin word ‘nenia,’ which initially meant ‘lament’ or ‘lamentation,’ but gradually denoted any kind of song. During the Renaissance, the term ‘nenia’ took on the specific meaning of ‘lullaby’ in Italian. Nicolò Rubini (1584-1625) published a secular lullaby ‘Fa la nanina’ in 1613, probably quoting an existing folk melody. Rubini’s artful arrangement of the melody is a fine example of how high art and folk art could be united in the first half of the 17th century.
Even in spiritual songs, composers sometimes consciously sought to connect with folksongs, if only to reach the poorest and least educated strata of the population, thereby trying to preserve them for the Roman Catholic cause. Merula was therefore not the first (nor the last) composer to come up with the idea of giving the lullaby a new spiritual dimension by putting it in the mouth of the Virgin Mary herself. The way he did this, however, was unparalleled and has little or nothing to do with folk music. No one has yet been able to explain conclusively why Merula writes the words ‘sopra alla nanna’, but ‘on a lullaby’ strongly suggests that Merula was inspired while composing ‘Hor ch’è tempo di dormire’ by an already existing lullaby. One is tempted to think either of a lullaby by another composer or of a much-loved folk melody. But the latter, as mentioned, is highly unlikely and no ‘example’ by another composer has come to light so far.
So, what is so miraculous about this 182 bars long lullaby, the 11th of a total of 16 songs and cantatas that Merula compiled in his Opus 13? First, until bar 163, the bass part—a figured bass for organ, harpsichord, or lute, possibly reinforced with a cello—plays the same two notes a – b-flat over and over again. This is a graphic representation of the movement of Mary’s swaying arms, or of the rocking motion of the cradle. The interval between a and b-flat is a minor second, a plaintive motive. Above those two endlessly repeated bass notes, Mary sings her increasingly intense lament. Her despair sounds more and more desperate and sorrowful, until in the last twenty bars the atmosphere finally changes and the lamentation gives way to resignation and even joy, when Mary imagines that one day she will enjoy heavenly glory together with her Son and Saviour. Merula’s music looks so simple—one voice accompanied by a figured bass part for organ, harpsichord, or lute—but the musical effect is magical and highly expressive.
Equally evocative, but much more theatrical and extrovert is the cantata with which the collection opens, ‘Curzio ove vai?’ (‘Curtius, where are you going?’). The entire collection Opus 13 is named after this cantata: Curzio precipitato (‘Curtius precipitated’). This spectacularly virtuoso work for bass voice and figured bass has as its subject the self-chosen death of the young Roman Marcus Curtius, who is said to have voluntarily sacrificed himself in the 4th century BC to appease the wrath of the displeased gods. It is breathtaking how in bars 23-24 Merula lets the bass voice run down two octaves—from high d’ to low D—in an ever-increasing tempo, thus tangibly and realistically painting how Marcus Curtius, seated on his horse, plunges into the abyss. The approaching horse, incidentally, had already presented itself right in the cantata’s first bars, in the Sinfonia ad imitatione d’un cavallo, the ‘instrumental music in which a horse is imitated.’ Rossini would use the same motif centuries later in the overture of his opera Guillaume Tell to musically depict a galloping horse.
It was probably ‘effect pieces’ like these which caused ‘Il cavalier’ Merula to be praised by a learned contemporary for his “great and capricious ingenuity.” An erudite knight he was indeed, as familiar with the writings of Antiquity as he was with Counter-Reformation theology. He liked to demonstrate his erudition in the often rather turgid dedications that accompany his publications. These were a showy display of scholarship that were actually much appreciated during the early Baroque period, and for which we should gladly forgive Merula, the composer of so much profoundly moving music. And besides: isn’t Merula’s intriguing vision of an all-encompassing harmony, linking the music of the heavenly spheres with that of the earthly realms, actually quite modern again?
Recommended recordings
Soprano Maria Cristina Kiehr made a beautiful recording of Merula’s ‘Hor ch’è tempo di dormire’ with La Fenice. That recording can be found in a fine box of three CDs, released under the title ‘A Baroque Christmas’ on the Ricercar label. Spanish soprano Núria Rial sings the song on the beautiful CD ‘Via crucis,’ with L’Arpeggiata conducted by Christina Pluhar (Virgin Classics).
