The question is, are there any homologies at all between music and nature? There is one, Galilei
contended, if by nature we mean human nature: and that is speech, or what linguists still call “natural
language.” Plato himself had accounted for the “ethos” of the modes—their ability to influence the soul—
on the basis of this homology. In the Republic, Socrates asks that just two modes be allowed for music in
his ideal state: the one “that would fittingly imitate the utterances and the accents of a brave man who is
engaged in warfare or in any enforced business, and who, when he has failed, either meeting wounds or
death or having fallen into some other mishap, in all these conditions confronts fortune with steadfast
endurance and repels her strokes”; and the one that imitates the speech of “a man engaged in works of
peace, not enforced but voluntary, either trying to persuade somebody of something and imploring him—
whether it be a god, through prayer, or a man, by teaching and admonition—or contrariwise yielding
himself to another who is petitioning him or teaching him or trying to change his opinions, and in
consequence faring according to his wish, and not bearing himself arrogantly, but in all this acting
modestly and moderately and acquiescing in the outcome.”^3 Glaucon, his interlocutor, informs Socrates
that he has described the Dorian and the Phrygian modes, respectively.
So human speech—not just words, but intonation, pitch, tone of voice, and every other “paralexical”
aspect of speech that communicates over and above the literal meaning of the words (aspects that, in case
of contradiction or irony, are to be trusted over words)—is the true object of musical imitation within
Galilei’s radical humanism. And notice especially that Plato’s Phrygian mode is the persuasive mode.
That is the purpose of music: it is the great persuader. So Galilei’s radical humanism is another,
particularly literal manifestation of musical rhetoric: music as an art of persuasion. “Therefore,” Galilei
concluded,
when musicians go henceforth for their amusements to the tragedies and comedies played by the actors and clowns in the
theaters, let them for a while leave off their immoderate laughing and instead kindly observe in what manner the actors
speak, in what range, high or low, how loudly or softly, how rapidly or slowly they enunciate their words, when one
gentleman converses quietly with another. Let them pay a little attention to the differences and contrasts that obtain when
a gentleman speaks with one of his servants, or one of these with another. Let them consider how the prince converses
with one of his subjects or vassals; again, how he speaks to a petitioner seeking a favor; how one speaks when infuriated
or excited; how a married woman speaks, how a girl, a simple child, a witty wanton; how a lover speaks to his beloved
seeking to persuade her to grant him his wish; how one speaks when lamenting, when crying out, when afraid, and when
exulting with joy. From these diverse observations, if they are carried out attentively and considered with care, one can
deduce the way that best suits the expression of whatever meanings or emotion may come to hand.^4What musicians will gain, in short, will be a true stile rappresentativo: a true “representational
style.” Such a thing was not unknown to the madrigalists: we have already observed some pretty effective
and accurate imitation of speech in Cipriano de Rore’s Dalle belle contrade (Ex. 17-15). But even in the
most effective and rigorously representational polyphonic setting, there is a fundamental contradiction
between the singleness of the expressive poetic or textual voice and the multiplicity of actual singing
voices. The solution Galilei proposed was not a return to literal monophony but to what he called
monodia, “monody”—namely, a single voice accompanied by the lute (likened in this context to Apollo’s
lyre). In this way not even expressive harmony need be sacrificed to representation.
He was proposing, in short, a kind of music that he had already long since advocated and exemplified:
solo singing to the lute, a variety of continuo practice, one might say. But what had long been one
performance option among many (and one rarely committed to writing) now became a high cause. And the
vocal style now advocated was new in that, even more than the polyphonic madrigal’s, it took its bearings
from actual, enacted, enunciated speech rather than from the formal arrangements of verse. Galilei made a
setting of some verses from Dante’s Inferno the next year and performed them for Bardi’s Camerata as a
demonstration of the monodic style. Neither these nor any other monodic compositions by Galilei have