Abstract This article examines how urban popular music mobilized violent emotions during the Wars of Religion in Lyon. Alongside a larger corpus of invective literature, the printed dissemination of polemical songs expanded rapidly with the rise of the Catholic League. Contributing to the study of the history of emotions, this article keys into the importance of popular song within early modern economies of anger. Bookended by an original contrafactum from 1572, the ‘New Song ... tremble tremble Huguenots’ and its reuse as a tune basis for the 1589 ‘New Song of rejoicing ... on the death of Henri de Valois’, this article demonstrates how these songs assimilated strategies of vitriolic preaching into the mobile media form of dance tunes. Emphasizing the physical energy of these invective songs sung for dancing, I illustrate the ways that such songs served to both reflect and to intensify confessional fury. I On 29 April 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 … by the treachery of the governor Monseigneur de Sault and several city officers’.1 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 28–29 April, retaining power until 18 June 1563.2 Lyon was amongst several cities to be taken over by Protestants that year, in 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, spreading an ethos of fear-mongering that would increasingly provoke anger and violence against Protestant bodies. With the outbreak of violence in 1562, Catholic bishops, canons, deacons, mendicants and Jesuits began to actively participate in the production of such printed vernacular polemic.3 In Lyon, for instance, Michel Jove published the priest Artus Désiré’s Contrepoison des cinquante chansons de Clément Marot, faussement intitulées par luy Psalmes de David, fait et composé de plusieurs bonnes doctrines, et sentences préservatives d’hérésie.4 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’.5 Like much of his anti-Protestant vitriol, 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 his anger against Calvin’s seductive ability to twist the minds of the ‘poor masses’ through 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, entitled ‘Quand je t’invoque, helas, 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. What is unusual about this polemic, however, is that it is set to printed music. This is most curious because this music, this ‘antidote’, is actually a contrafactum, an existing tune set to new words. Désiré’s entire Contrepoison contains exacting contrafacta of the melodies that were printed most frequently as monophonic settings of Clément Marot’s French translations of the psalms (many of which would be replicated in the ‘official’ psalter of 1562). His ‘Chanson IIII’ (see Figure 1), for instance, is set to the tune that was printed in French Protestant psalters in Genevan editions in 1542, Lyonnais editions in 1547–9 and all subsequent Genevan editions from 1554 (see Figure 2).6 Recognizing the power of Marot’s psalms within the Protestant camp, Désiré sought to combat them through a musical ‘conversion’. The fact that Désiré printed all of the tunes highlights the reality that it was not just Marot’s poetry, but also the melodies to which they were bound, that bore the force of propaganda. Figure 1. View largeDownload slide Chanson IIII, Désiré, Contrepoison (Lyon, 1562) Bibliothèque municipale de Versailles Figure 1. View largeDownload slide Chanson IIII, Désiré, Contrepoison (Lyon, 1562) Bibliothèque municipale de Versailles Figure 2. View largeDownload slide ‘Quand je t’invoque’, Marot and Bèze (Geneva, 1565) Bibliothèque de Genève Figure 2. View largeDownload slide ‘Quand je t’invoque’, Marot and Bèze (Geneva, 1565) Bibliothèque de Genève Already in the 1530s, the Dominican Pierre Doré, a preacher in Paris, had called for such ‘antidotes’ in French to the ‘Lutheran poison’ coming off of the presses, though this call was only heeded in Lyon as the wars erupted.7 By mid-century, calls to purge Protestant ‘venom’ had become commonplace within both sermons and polemical Catholic treatises. In 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’.8 Perhaps this hunt for anti-venom was part of the reason why Désiré’s Contrepoison was so popular during the period leading up to and encompassing the first war. Amplifying its popular dissemination in print—it was published in Paris and Rouen in 1560, and in five more editions in Paris and Avignon, mostly from 1560 to 15629—the Contrepoison’s presentation in musical notation would have called out to a musically literate audience to put these anti-venom tunes into oral circulation. What is striking about its issuing in Lyon in particular is that it was printed during the Protestant reign of this city by Michel Jove, the Jesuit’s official printer (whose proselytizing faction would soon win over the city).10 Lyon would become increasingly radical as it aggressively turned back towards Catholicism and the Jesuits began to assume dominant propagatory roles. But 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: what, in 1569, the canon-count Gabriel de Saconay recalled as the year that the ‘tyrannical Huguenots sought to destroy all things divine and human in the city of Lyon’.11 II By printing this music, Désiré was laboriously and expensively desacralizing these tunes from the inside. He could simply have instructed the reader to sing his poetry to ‘Quand je t'invoque, helas, escoute’, but that would have validated the tune as a psalm translation. 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. Compilers of contrafacta collections in the sixteenth century repeatedly affirmed the 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 reappropriating 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 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.12 In both the large collated recueils (collections) 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 barely 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, and they were generally inexpensively and quickly produced in the form of chansons nouvelles. In this genre, rather than including notated music, the print simply indicated that the ‘new song’ was to be ‘sung to the tune of’ an existing popular tune—what musicologists call a timbre. 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 with printed music, they were an accessible medium, both in terms of price and in terms of the kind of literacy that they demanded.13 These songs also had a particular transtemporal affective force. For, as both writer and reader/performer approached the ‘new song’, they were required to recollect the old song. Because of this, these chansons had the potential to become intertextually affective—layering the associations, meanings and performances of the old onto the new. Indeed, these song intertexts had an accentuated capacity for circulating ideas and emotions precisely because of their orality. Once one person had read a chanson nouvelle, it could 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, such musical circulation was more effective, for music stuck to the memory better than text alone.14 This article moves outwards from one chanson nouvelle that was printed in the wake of the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre. I follow its transformation and intertextual mutation across an increasingly difficult period of the Wars of Religion, stopping along the way to explore related songs that further reveal the techniques and practices harnessed by these chansons nouvelles. Muckrakers disseminating these invective songs found ways of martialling some of the most emotional community practices in song form; circulating musically, these practices were then charged with the mobilizing quality of song. Political and religious figures were deeply concerned with the ways that emotions were moving around the populace during this period, interests that were aimed both at harnessing and at pacifying these public emotions. In exploring music’s place in emotional propaganda, this article draws on the work of historians of emotion, as well as research in affect studies. In emphasizing the importance of particular communal emotional practices, I take inspiration from Barbara Rosenwein’s work on ‘emotional communities’, which focuses on interpersonal emotions, on the emotions that bind.15 This project also builds on Susan C. Karant-Nunn’s critical research on preachers’ rhetorical appeals to the emotions in Catholic, Lutheran and Reformed (Calvinist) sermons in early modern Germany.16 Particularly relevant to this article is Karant-Nunn’s understanding of a ‘new–old’ Catholic tradition that made use of existing (medieval) modes of piety, deployed anew with the ‘affective earmarks’ of post-Tridentine Catholicism.17 In considering musical actions, however, my concern in this article is principally with the circulation of emotions. As such, in framing music’s role in emotional movements, I borrow the language of ‘affective economies’ from affect studies, where the term has been largely used to refer to the public circulation of emotion, particularly through Sara Ahmed’s work.18 Ahmed 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. Through an analytic partly 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’.19 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 collectivities. I depart from Ahmed in her consideration of affect as both basically superficial—shaping the surfaces of bodies and worlds—and entirely discursive. In exploring the ways that affect circulated through music, the affective movement between music-related bodies and things, but also musical actions, must be included in such musical economies. Querying how we position the work of oral culture, this article explores how Catholic street songs that spread with increasing fervour from the 1570s to the 1590s played a significant role in shaping economies of anger in early modern France. In its movement from print objects, into 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. Critical to this movement was the moving quality of music itself, and the particular somatic quality of these ‘new songs’. As we will see, much of this repertoire was based on dance tunes. Keyed to popular dances, inflammatory chansons nouvelles tapped into collective memories of action, giving the music the capacity to move singers and listeners in a way that text itself never could. III Once the Catholics retook 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 were gradually pushed aside, and conservative and radical Catholics began to dominate the city council. Control of the Collège de la Trinité, which had been municipally run since 1527 and had been a bastion of humanist learning, 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 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 Henri Hauser, his preaching in Bordeaux, preceding the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres there on 3 October, had roused the crowds to violence. Purportedly, he had bellowed: Who carried out the judgment 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 out in the city of Bordeaux? It will be the Angel of God.20 Larissa Taylor has argued that preaching was probably the most effective means of disseminating confessional polemic to a wide audience.21 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.22 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. 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. Auger’s preaching in Lyon, a city shifting out of Protestant occupation and into radical Catholicism, would clearly have deployed common invectives about ‘heretics’ and ‘pollution’. 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’.23 While a particular performative element was only present in the spoken sermon, the same anti-Huguenot positions were being disseminated through various media; in fact, such media were often the design of the same preachers. 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.24 The decision to translate this vitriolic discourse into vernacular print was taken with a bellicose sense of urgency. Our author of the Contrepoison, Artus Désiré, stated bluntly: ‘Heresy needs to be destroyed in France by French books’.25 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’.26 As Luc Racaut contends, such polemical pamphlets not only affected their audience, they also reflected their audience. Racaut explains that the production of such ephemera partly resulted from the welling-up of oral discourse, such that ‘the success of pamphlets depended on how well they addressed the concerns of their audience’.27 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). As Luc Racaut has demonstrated with Nicolas Chesneau in Paris, larger volumes were a labour 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.28 During times of escalating hostilities, these cheaper prints became ever more of a mainstay for Lyonnais printers, and tended to focus on local issues, events and concerns.29 Racaut brings up an integral question about the extent to which ‘the perceptions and portrayals of Protestants found in printed polemic reflect the concerns and fears of the intended readership’.30 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? What extant modes of disseminating information did such prints exploit? 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’.31 While the poetry of such songs was itself extremely repetitive, these chanson nouvelles were also keyed to the rhymes, rhythms and gestures of the timbre upon which they were based. ‘Reading’ a chansons nouvelle was thus always already more aural and oral than truly visual; and in any case, such ‘new songs’ were clearly being circulated long before printers had begun to harness their popularity. 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 thus combined layers of familiarity, emotion and shared public affect in the digestible anti-venom format of ‘new songs’. The most virulent extant collection of anti-Huguenot contrafacta was certainly Christophe de Bordeaux’s Beau Recueil de plusieurs belles chansons spirituelles, avec ceux des huguenots hérétiques et ennemis de Dieu, et de nostre mère saincte Église: faictes et composées par maistre Chistofle de Bourdeaux, printed in either 1569 or 1570 in Paris for Magdeleine Berthelin. The volume is packed with 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. The song instructs the listener/reader in proper, if simplified, Catholic doctrine by pointing out Protestant errors, addressing holy water, Purgatory, eating meat on Fridays, the Marian cult, iconoclasm 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 et 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 et beaux Malgré les huguenaulx. 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’. Unlike volumes dedicated to individual poets or composers, recueils like Bordeaux’s rarely featured poetic or musical attributions; and, without privileges, other printers could pirate these collections without repercussion.32 These ‘new songs’ were thus recycled across and between recueils, placards and short pamphlets. Moreover, successful reprints of ‘new songs’ 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, perhaps even picking up chansons nouvelles that were already circulating in the streets. Integral to the success of a chanson nouvelle was a well-chosen timbre, popularly appreciated by local consumers. The timbre given for this ‘Chanson contre les Huguenaux’ was ‘Robin’. This almost certainly referred to the song ‘Robin a bon credit’, for the original has a recurring refrain at the end of each short quatrain stanza, ‘Ma mère je veux Robin’, which has been transformed in the contrafactum to an alternating refrain ‘Pensez y huguenaux/Malgré les huguenaux’. While ‘Robin a bon credit’ provided the inspiration for a four-part polyphonic setting by Hérissant in a Le Roy and Ballard edition from 1556, it remains impossible to know exactly what the simple monophonic ‘Robin’ may have sounded like. Indeed, the tunes of such popular songs would have varied depending on where and when they were being sung. As we will see, however, the rhythmic markers of such tunes—the aspect that correlates most clearly with the new texts that they were being set to—tended to be the most consistent. And such rhythmic thrusts, quite often, marked the tunes as dances. In his 1575 Recueil des plus belles et excellentes chansons en forme de voix de villes tirees de divers autheurs et 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: [F]rom 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.33 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.34 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.35 As Chardavoine observes, many of these tunes derive from social dances; and 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 case of the branle—gestures.36 In the hypercharged 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.37 Through their extant relationships, such organizations—youth societies, confraternities, craft groups—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, one of the main public functions of these groups was to organize festivities within their community; the songs featured in such celebrations frequently 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. Keying new texts to familiar timbres made ‘reading’ chansons nouvelles much like preliminary primer exercises, wherein a student would ‘read’ texts such as the Ave Maria, which they knew from singing it countless times in catechism.38 The very ephemerality of music means that we are rarely offered clear descriptions of its performance—much less so the particular details of the what and the who of its performance. This is even more exaggerated with something like contrafacta, the very ubiquity of which make references to their performance unlikely. For traces of chanson nouvelle performance, we must unpack the material remnants, scour the layering of song upon song that is the basis of timbres. IV One print that demonstrates such material traces of performance is a pamphlet that 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).39 Figure 3. View largeDownload slide Chanson nouvelle a l’encontre des Huguenotz (1572) Münchener Digitale Bibliothek Figure 3. View largeDownload slide Chanson nouvelle a l’encontre des Huguenotz (1572) Münchener Digitale Bibliothek As the title indicates, there are two songs in this print: one rallying ‘against’ the Huguenots, and another about the (ill-fated) marriage of Henri 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. 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: 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 et 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 and Lieutenants: Then came the Swiss royal guard, Providing drums, Accompanied by fifes And other instruments. […] Then the King of Navarre 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. The song that precedes this verse is cast in a vastly differing mode of jubilation. The ‘Chanson à l’encontre des Huguenotz’ 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 the 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 rumour. The carnage was famously initiated by an attempt to assassinate Admiral Coligny. Staying in Paris after this attempt on his life, Coligny and his followers began voicing their own desires for revenge, which fomented rumours that there was going to be a Huguenot attack on the city. Charles IX then hatched a plot to destroy the Huguenot leadership, an offensive strategy that did not take into account the potential consequences.40 Diefendorf argues that there is no evidence that there was 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 (who was, of course, successfully murdered this time) 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’.41 Once made public, these passions were impossible to restrain, and the killings and raids continued in Paris for about a week. 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.42 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.43 In Lyon, the sequence of events that took place is similarly foggy. The bare outlines are as follows: on 27 August, 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 27 August, a group of artisans attacked and killed the Protestant preacher Jacques Langlois, throwing his body into the Saône. On 28 August, Mandelot received instructions from the king and 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, 30 August, 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.44 What followed on 30 August has become known as the Vêpres Lyonnais because the church bells tolled for Sunday services while ritualistic murders proliferated in the streets. As Natalie Zemon Davis has argued for much of the Catholic violence throughout the Wars of Religion, the Vêpres saw Lyonnais Catholics 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.45 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’ is a song 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 pre-emptive 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 et 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 furore, 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 follows from an opening line that demands a bodily response to terror: 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 From this initial hateful provocation, the overarching message of the song 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’. Given shared commonalities with a song entitled ‘Noble Ville de Paris’, I suspect that the phrase ‘Noble Fille de Paris’ came about due to a typographical error made during the preparation of this pamphlet.46 The chanson nouvelle ‘Noble Ville de Paris’ circulated in Bordeaux’s Beau Recueil, amongst other editions. Not only does ‘Noble Ville de Paris’ utilize the same meter and rhyme scheme as ‘Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz’—the necessary formalities for a timbre basis—it also expresses the sentiment that the Huguenots needed to be eradicated from the heart of France. 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. 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. 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 many other chansons nouvelles. 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 and so on.47 Daniel Heartz has offered evidence that the branle may even have been based on vocal antecedents.48 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’.49 The most typical rhythmic form of a branle gay is given in Example 1: Example 1 View largeDownload slide Example 1 View largeDownload slide This phrase pattern would have fitted easily onto the poem, ‘Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz’, although it would not have scanned perfectly: Trem-bléz trém-blez Hu-gué-nóts ... Such ill-fitting melodic bases were not atypical in this quickly produced genre—as 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 2, we arrive at emphases that fit more directly onto both ‘Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz’ and ‘Noble Ville de Paris’: Example 2 View largeDownload slide Example 2 View largeDownload slide 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. 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. 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.50 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 Catholicism; by 1566 they had basically all returned to the fold.51 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 Vêpres Lyonnais still remains uncertain, it is nonetheless striking that a notable portion of the artisan classes were active participants in the slaughter.52 V 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’.53 In reality, the populace had been primed by preachers and polemical discourse to feel justified in murdering their Protestant neighbours.54 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 rumour’ and incited violence.55 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. A traceable stream of propaganda that focused on ideas about Catholic anger, however, does survive, an outpouring of justificatory feeling in Lyon about the massacre in Paris. After the eruption of popular violence in Paris, invective that celebrated the cleansing of France through stock rhetorical turns flew off the presses. Despite their commonalities, such polemic needed to take various forms in order to appeal to diverse audiences and satisfy local styles of consumption. Thus, in Lyon in 1572, ephemera supporting righteous anger at the Protestants in France ranged from prose discourses heavy in ancient and biblical citations, to slang and pun-filled poems. Strongly resembling speeches made in the French Academies and parlement, even the heavier-handed discourses were rooted in oral practice. Indeed, several of the speakers that participated in the Academies were published in such pamphlets. 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 et scandales contre la doctrine que vous avez apprinse, et 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, and ends by asking God to punish these rebels. The Remonstrance, however, was first printed in 1563 (and written at the end of 1562).56 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 punishing the Protestants.57 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 violent 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 behaviour, the Crown made clear its unease at the possibility that crowds could be propelled towards exacting God’s righteous fury.58 VI 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.59 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’.60 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, et d’amours, plaisantes et 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’, this collection reprints Bordeaux’s 1569/70 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 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. Importantly, these ephemeral prints also primed performers and listeners with somatically charged music, tunes that were part of the affective mobilization of the community. Like so much ephemera, such appeals were oriented to regional demands.61 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 steal the king away from the Guise-dominated court.62 But the song also speaks to a specifically Lyonnais experience of impending conflict and civic militarism: Quant Lyon ouyt dire La prinse de Mascon, 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 et 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 and 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, ‘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.63 For centuries, throngs of laypeople were so enthusiastic about participating in these rites that they had to be beaten back from the processions to protect the sacrosanct order.64 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. 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 1642.65 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 (peddlers) would sing as they hawked these pamphlets and recueils on the city streets.66 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, such as placards and short pamphlets.67 This begs a question about the 1572 contrafactum ‘Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz’: Why did it only refer to the massacre in Paris? It seems probable, in fact, that this song was printed between the massacre that began in Paris on 24 August and the most severe outbreak of popular violence in Lyon on 30 August.68 As noted, polemical placards and pamphlets were purportedly printed extremely quickly in the city, helping to stimulate passions and rumours.69 As a sticky medium—one which adhered to embodied and emotional memory—a simple inflammatory song could have been disseminated across the city with far more versatility than just print itself. VII A similarly incendiary 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’.70 The auditor is instructed: 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 respirer.71 Thus sing out joyfully For having made such a sacrifice Killing the arrogant one [Henri 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.72 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 Henri 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 hanged in public squares.73 Lyon had also been turning dramatically towards radical Catholicism, and in February of 1589, the city 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 earlier polemical song: ‘Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz’. That the contrafactum label (‘Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz’) was used, rather than the timbre from 1572 (‘Noble Ville de Paris’) is critical, for it reveals to us a rare trace of chanson nouvelle performance. As ephemera, these ‘new songs’ were not built for longevity as documents, particularly when they were printed as pamphlets or feuilles volantes, as in the case of ‘Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz’. Their very song form, however, meant that they could move into oral circulation and outlive material remnants. Indeed, the use of ‘Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz’ as a timbre tells us that this contrafactum had gained great popularity during the previous seventeen years of the Wars of Religion, for a timbre needed to be familiar—otherwise it served no purpose. The reuse of the contrafactum to celebrate the massacre of the king not only complicates its lyrical meanings, it also amplifies the anger mobilized by the original. The Chanson pleine de resjouissance, then, offers artefactual evidence for the intensification of affect during the Wars of Religion, affect that was sustained across decades, reinforced and re-embodied constantly through song. Part of the popularity of this original contrafactum (‘Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz’) may have stemmed from its very physicality. Martialling the energy of the branle, common practice (and participant-observers such as Chardavoine) tells us that this song would likely have been danced to through the city streets of Lyon, moving crowds of furious Catholics intent on cleansing their community. The use of ‘Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz’ for the Chanson pleine de resjouissance thus not only layered vitriolic texts, it also harnessed its raucous dance form. The survival of a pamphlet like ‘Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz’ and the placard Chanson pleine de resjouissance 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.74 This situation may, in fact, have been exaggerated in France, as, in establishing his reign, Henri IV demanded the destruction of all polemical printed materials relating to the wars—most especially any published in favour of the League. This destruction was a form of censorship, of course, since much of the pro-League polemic had been launched against Henri de Navarre (the eventual Henri IV). The result has been a vast reduction of what would already have been sparse remnants of the hateful propaganda of the 1570s to the 1590s. Such caustic songs often functioned intertextually and bodily, through timbres that summoned affective and potentially mobilizing memories. As this was an oral practice at its core, we have very little direct evidence about chansons nouvelles being sung; to find traces of chanson nouvelles of their performance, we must turn to their material remnants—the placards, pamphlets and recueils. As in the case of ‘Tremblez tremblez Huguenotz’, these betray the popularity of such chansons through their reuse as timbres. Such songs mobilized some of the most effective affective tropes from vitriolic preaching—but this in itself was common across most propaganda. The particular emotional power of chansons nouvelles came from their very musicality. For they harnessed an already popular oral practice—writing new lyrics to existing songs—and charged them with the emotional energy of religious polemic. As such ‘new songs’ became popular as timbres, the affective content of their texts was layered anew. But the most important mobilizing quality of these chansons nouvelles was their basis in movement. Derived from dance tunes, these songs most likely roused singers and listeners to dance, propelling violent emotions through the collective movements of raucous crowds. Dismissing the work of oral culture, 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.’75 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 unsavoury, 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. Charged with somatic energy, such songs danced in anger amplified tensions that were already on the cusp of eruption. The author is a Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) Post-Doctoral Fellow, Department of History, University of Manitoba, Canada. She may be reached at email@example.com. Research for this article was conducted thanks to a generous Visiting Fellowship in the Department of Music at Harvard University, as well as a SSHRC Doctoral Fellowship. An early exploration of this topic was presented at the Society for the Study of French History’s 2014 ‘History and the Senses’; Conference. Special thanks to Professors Luc Racaut, Kate van Orden and Charles Hirschkind for their helpful insights on the material. Footnotes 1 J. Guéraud, in J. Tricou (ed.), La Chronique Lyonnaise de Jean Guéraud 1536–1562 (Lyon, 1929), 153, ‘Sensuit la piteuse desoulation de la pauvre et miserable ville de Lyon surprinse par les huguenots […] par trahison du gouverneur Mr de Sault et aulcuns officiers de la Ville’. 2 For a detailed study of the Protestant presence in Lyon, with a thorough examination of the lead-up to and year of Protestant rule: Y. Krumenacker (ed.), Lyon 1562, capitale protestante: une histoire religieuse de Lyon à la Renaissance (Lyon, 2009). 3 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 B. Hartley, ‘War and tolerance: Catholic polemic in Lyon during the French religious wars’ (PhD, University of Arizona, 2007), 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. 4 A. Désiré, Contrepoison des cinquante chansons de Clément Marot, faussement intitulées par luy Psalmes de David, fait et composé de plusieurs bonnes doctrines, et sentences préservatives d’hérésie […] plus adjousté de nouveau certains lieux et passages des euvres dudit Marot, par lesquelz l’on connoistra l’hérésie et erreur d’iceluy (Lyon, 1562). All translations of Désiré’s Contrepoison are my own. 5 Ibid., A2v, ‘Ce prese[n]t Livre ha esté veu, visité et 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, et necessaire estre mis en lumiere’. 6 Including the editions La Forme des prières et chant ecclésiastiques (Geneva, 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 (Geneva, 1551 and 1554); Pseaumes de David … (83 + 7), à la suite de la Bible (Geneva, 1556); (Les 150) Pseaumes de David (Geneva, 1562). There are small variations between these tune versions, which might seem to indicate that Désiré was specifically consulting Loys Bourgeois’ polyphonic editions (Lyon, 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: P. Pidoux, Le Psautier huguenot du XVIesiècle, melodies et documents, vol. 1 (Basel, 1962–9), 7–8. 7 Hartley, ‘War and tolerance’, 81. 8 LePicart, in L. Taylor, Soldiers of Christ: Preaching in Late Medieval and Reformation France (New York, 1992), 220–1. 9 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. 10 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 was published in those cities. Notably, in his facsimile edition of the Contrepoison Jacques Pineaux seems not to have noticed the Lyon edition. J. Pineaux, Le Contrepoison des cinquante-deux chansons de Clement Marot (Geneva, 1977). 11 G. de Saconay, Discours des premiers troubles avenus à Lyon, avec l’apologie pour la ville de Lyon, contre le libelle faucement intitulé, La juste et saincte defence de la ville de Lyon. Par M. Gabriel de Saconay, Praecenteur et Conte de l’eglise de Lyon (Lyon, 1569), A3, ‘[L]a rage des seditieux ose entreprendre de renverser toutes choses divines et humaines, et 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 Défense de la ville de Lyon (Lyon, 1563). 12 Important exceptions within musicological study include R. Freedman’s The chansons of Orlando di Lasso and their Protestantlisteners: Music, piety, and print in sixteenth-century France (Rochester, NY, 2000); sections of A. Fisher’s Music and religious identity in counter-reformation Augsburg, 1580–1630 (Burlington, VT, 2004); R. W. Oettinger’s Music as Propaganda in the German Reformation (Burlington, VT, 2001); and K. van Orden’s ‘Cheap print and street song following the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacres of 1572’, in Music and the Cultures of Print, ed. K. van Orden (New York, 2000), 271–324. 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 enquiry into the sociopolitical complexities of rapidly printed contrafacta collections. 13 For a discussion of the material makeup of most recueils de chansons: K. van Orden, ‘Vernacular culture and the chanson in Paris, 1570–80’ (PhD, University of Chicago, 1996), 240–1. 14 The Jesuit pedagogue Michel Coyssard, for instance, states in his Traicté du profit que toute personne tire de chanter en la doctrine Chrestienne et ailleurs, les hymnes, et chansons spirituelles en vulgaure: et du mal qu’apportent les lascives, et heretiques (Lyon, 1608): ‘La vive voix a je ne sçay quelle energie cachee, et 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 K. van Orden, ‘Children’s voices: Singing and literacy in sixteenth-century France’, Early Music History 25 (2006), 209–56. 15 B. Rosenwein, Emotional Communities in the Early Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY, 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. 16 S. C. Karant-Nunn, The Reformation of Feeling: Shaping the Religious Emotions in Early Modern Germany (Oxford, 2010). 17 Ibid., 60–2. 18 Ahmed’s position on affective economies was articulated in ch. 3, ‘The affective politics of fear’ of her book The Cultural Politics of Emotion (New York, 2004). A tightened version of these explorations was presented in her article ‘Affective economies’, Social Text, 22 (2004), 117–39. 19 Ahmed, ‘Affective economies’, 120. 20 Simon Goulart, claiming to quote Auger in his Memoires de l’Estat de France sous Charles IX, first published in 1577–8. Quoted in H. Hauser, ‘Le Père Émond Auger et le Massacre de Bordeaux’, Bulletin du Société de l’histoire du protestantisme français (1903), 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’; my translation. 21 ‘The Catholic response to early Protestant heresy’, in L. Taylor, Heresy and Orthodoxy in Sixteenth-Century Paris: François le Picart and the Beginnings of the French Reformation (Boston, 1999). 22 This is the case that Arnold Hunt makes for preaching in early modern England, in ‘From pulpit to print’, in The Art of Hearing: English Preachers and their Audiences, 1590–1640 (Cambridge, 2010). 23 B. Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross: Catholics and Huguenots in Sixteenth-Century Paris (Oxford, 1991), 158. 24 As L. 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. L. Racaut, Hatred in Print: Catholic Propaganda and Protestant Identity during the French Wars of Religion (Aldershot, 2002), 40. Barbara Diefendorf also 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’. B. Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross, 150. 25 Désiré, in Racaut, Hatred in Print, 18. 26 F. Yates, The French Academies of the sixteenth century, 2nd ed. (London and New York: 1988). 27 Racaut, Hatred in Print, 47. 28 Luc Racaut demonstrates how the successful printing business of a Catholic printer in Paris, Nicolas Chesneau, was founded on short in-octavo pamphlets. Chesneau’s attempt to break into grander in-folio editions would lead him to economic ruin. L. Racaut, ‘Nicolas Chesneau, Catholic printer in Paris during the Wars of Religion’, The Historical Journal, 52 (2009), 23–41. Peter Stallybrass, in ‘“Little Jobs”: broadsides and the printing revolution’, in Agents of Change: Print Culture Studies after Elisabeth L. Eisenstein, ed. S. Alcorn Baron, E. N. Lindquist and E. F. Shevlin (Amherst, MA, 2007), 315–41, argues a similar point in England, where ‘printers were businessmen, pursuing profit, and profit was rarely to be made by publishing huge folios that required major capital investments’, 320. The most profitable printing jobs in the early stages of print were actually quickly produced indulgences and edicts—‘little jobs’ that produced guaranteed income. 29 For analyses of economic decline in Lyon in the 1570–80s: R. Gascon, Grand Commerce et vie urbaine au XVIesiècle: Lyon et ses marchands, vol. 2 (Paris, 1971), 535; and M. Pallasse, La Sénéchaussée et siège présidial de Lyon pendant les Guerres de Religion: essai sur l’évolution de l’administration royale en province au XVIesiècle (Lyon, 1942), 328–55. 30 Racaut, Hatred in Print, 47. 31 van Orden, ‘Cheap Print and Street Songs’, 297. 32 As 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 culture’, 245. 33 J. Chardavoine, Recueil des plus belles et excellentes chansons en forme de voix de villes tirees de divers autheurs et Poëtes François, tant anciens que modernes (Paris: Claude Micard, 1575), fol. 3, “[D]e 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’. 34 Van Orden, ‘Vernacular culture’, 254–5. 35 Van Orden, ‘Cheap print’, 278. 36 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, http://www.atilf.fr/dmf) states that the branle figuratively indicates ‘agitation, trouble, a bad situation, and danger’, while the Dictionnaire de l’ancienne langue Française (http://www.micmap.org/dicfro/search/dictionnaire-godefroy) refers to ‘la bransle’ as a tocsin—the bell that was rung in order to activate a community during times of danger. 37 N. Zemon Davis, Society and Culture in Early Modern Europe, 2nd edn (Stanford, CA, 1975), 172–3. 38 For a discussion of music and elementary literacy: Kate van Orden’s chapter ‘Latin primers’ in her book Materialities: Books, Readers, and the Chanson in Sixteenth-Century Europe (Oxford, 2015), 132–66. 39 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 four-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. As with many inexpensive pamphlets, this woodcut was likely recycled from another printer—but its depiction of a joyous communal gathering is nonetheless notable. 40 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 inflammatory 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’. M. Holt, The French Wars of Religion (Cambridge, 1995), 85. 41 Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross, 99. 42 Holt, The French Wars of Religion, 92. 43 Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross, 106. 44 A. Puyroche, ‘Le Saint-Barthélemy à Lyon et le gouverneur Mandelot’, Bulletin du Société Histoire du Protestantisme Français 18 (1869), 359–61. 45 Discours du massacre de ceux de la religion reformee, fait à Lyon, par les Catholiques Romains, le vingthuictieme du mois d’Aoust et jours ensuyvans, de l’an 1572 […] avec une amiable remonstrance aux Lyonnois lesquels par timidité et co[n]tre leur propre conscience continuent à faire hommage aux idoles (s.l., 1574), 45–50. 46 There are no traces thus far of any song called ‘Noble Filles de Paris’, though this may have been a separate poem related to ‘Noble Ville de Paris’ (the former may have been based on the latter as a timbre for instance). If this pamphlet were a copy of one circulating in Paris, which is also possible, there could have been a typo as a result of a very quick production process in reprinting it in Lyon. 47 D. Heartz, ‘Sources and forms of the French instrumental dance in the 16th century’ (PhD, Harvard University, 1957); H. Mayer Brown, ‘“Ut Musica Poesis”: Music and poetry in France in the late sixteenth century’, Early Music Hist, 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, et autres especes de poësie lyrique. Par Claude de Pontoux, à Paris. 48 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. 49 P. Hoffman, Church and Community in the Diocese of Lyon, 1500–1789 (New Haven, 1995), 42. 50 T. Arbeau, Orchésographie et traicte en forme de dialogue par lequel toutes personnes peuvent facilement apprendre et practiquer l’honneste exercise des dances (Langres, 1588; re-editions in 1589 and 1596). 51 Davis, ch. 1, ‘Strikes and salvation at Lyon’, in Society and culture. 52 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. 53 Diefendorf, Beneath the Cross, 146. 54 As 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’. Ibid., 158. 55 Discours du massacre, 45, ‘Car il y eut quelques placars affichez qui remire[n]t la ville en rumeur’; my translation. 56 The Remonstrance follows on the heels of Ronsard’s Discours des misères and the Continuation du discours des misères. Ronsard’s Discours des misères was incomparably successful, and disseminated as placards across France. On this series of Discours and Remonstrances by Ronsard: M. 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, ed. J. Foa and P.-A. Mellet (Paris, 2012), 59–75. 57 In addition, the important Catholic poets Jodelle and Baïf declared similar positions. 58 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 général des anciennes lois françaises depuis l’an 420 jusqu’à la révolution, vols 14 and 15 (Paris, 1822–33); and A. Stegmann, Édits des Guerres de Religion (Paris, 1979). 59 A. Kleinclausz, Histoire de Lyon, vol. 1 (Lyon, 1939), 424–6. 60 Hoffman, Church and Community, 38. 61 Although Rigaud’s prints were normally widely circulated through the Lyon fairs, in periods of greatest conflict international and even national distribution was markedly reduced. 62 On this plot: Holt, The French Wars of Religion, 64. 63 Entrées royales et fêtes populaires à Lyon du XV–XVIII siècles: exposition 12 juin–12 juillet 1970 (Lyon, 1970), 25. 64 P. 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. 65 Entrées royales, 28. 66 For a discussion of song and colportage: van Orden, ‘Cheap print’, 284–6. 67 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. 68 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. 69 Discours du massacre (1574). 70 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, vol. 4 (Paris, 1878), 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. 71 Ibid. 72 Ibid. 73 Holt, The French Wars of Religion, 137. 74 Tessa Watt gives this approximate survival rate for sixteenth-century English ballads in Cheap Print and Popular Piety, 1550–1640 (Cambridge, 1991), 141. The statistics may be even starker in France, where there was never the same antiquarian enthusiasm for broadside collection witnessed in England. 75 C. A. Mayer, ‘Reviews: Artus Désiré: Le Contrepoison des cinquante-deux chansons de Clément Marot. Fac-similé de l’édition de Paris, 1560, avec introduction et notes par Jacques Pineaux’, Fr. Stud., 34 (1981), 432. © The Author(s) 2018. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the Society for the Study of French History. All rights reserved. For permissions, please e-mail: firstname.lastname@example.org This article is published and distributed under the terms of the Oxford University Press, Standard Journals Publication Model (https://academic.oup.com/journals/pages/about_us/legal/notices)
French History – Oxford University Press
Published: Apr 4, 2018
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