One of the most common – and frequently disturbing – clichés about Italianness is the triad pasta, pizza, mandolino. The two most beloved kinds of Italian food – both high in carbohydrates – are, somewhat incongruously, paired with a musical instrument, taken as a quintessential symbol for Italian music. Indeed, and at least in certain zones of Italy, the mandolin has been one of the most common instruments for decades. It also encouraged collective musicianship, and mandolin orchestras still continue to flourish in Italy. However, just as Italian cuisine vastly exceeds pasta and pizza, so do the mandolin’s history and repertoire massively transcend the boundaries of folk music.
In particular, the role of the mandolin in the Baroque and Rococo era needs still to be explored in a consistent and thorough fashion, even though scholars and performers such as Davide Rebuffa (on whose research the following pages will extensively draw) are doing a splendid works in bringing the secrets of eighteenth-century mandolin to light.
The early history of the mandolin bears witness to a variety of forms, shapes, and tunings. Thanks to its small size, dulcet tone, and versatility, the mandolin quickly acquired a place of preeminence both in instrumental works and as a coprotagonist of vocal music. Its golden age was the eighteenth century, when it attracted the attention of some of the most important musicians of the era, whilst in the Romantic period it began to be relegated within the smaller and more limited domain of amateur or domestic music-making.
The official birth date of the mandolin is 1627, when the first testimony of an instrument by this name is found, in the inventory of a luthier. Among hundreds of other instruments, there is just one mandolin, thus implying that it was a true novelty. Within the space of twenty years from then, however, other similar inventories attest to a much wider dissemination of the instrument, bearing witness to the popularity it quickly enjoyed.
From roughly the same time (1650-70) dates a manuscript by Agnolo Conti of Florence. It is the most ancient collection of mandolin music which survives to present-day, and it is conceived for a 4-course instrument. As concerns printed music, a couple of “balletti per la mandola” by Gasparo Cantarelli of Bologna (written for 5-course mandolin) is included within a method for guitar by Giovanni Pietro Ricci, printed in Rome in 1677; this is the first example of a printed publication for the mandolin. It is also interesting inasmuch as it suggests that the first mandolin players… were probably guitarists. Of course, the other main field whence mandolin players came was that of lute music, although, as Rebuffa correctly remarks, “it is […] interesting, and curious, that no examples of this kind have come to us in 17th century Italian lute books”. Thus, there is this double ascendency, in a manner of speaking: guitar playing, mainly at the dawn of mandolin music, and lute playing, in the decades between 17th and 18th century.
In the first decade of the 18th century, the mandolin crossed the Channel; from 1707 is the first witness of mandolin performances in London. Unsurprisingly, the mandolinist was an Italian, i.e. Francesco Conti. The wording of the concert’s advertisement is worth quoting, since it is both significant and curious: “Mr Hirckford’s Dancing Room in James Street, at the Hay Market: […] Signior [sic] Conti will play upon his great Theorbo, and on the Mandoline, an instrument not known yet”. Conti thus was a lutenist who doubled as a mandolin player, and the novelty of this instrument was expressly remarked. Another advertisement, on another paper, read: “Signior [sic] Conti is to play upon his Great Theorbo, and la Mandelitta, an Instrument hitherto unknown”. Here too the newness of the mandolin is highlighted, but the name by which it is indicated is very bizarre and unusual.
Indeed, names and terminology are – as can be expected – slightly confusing, particularly in the early stage of mandolin history. The most reliable source which can explain the difference between various forms and shapes of similar instruments is a work by Francesco Redi (1626-1690). Redi was in high repute already at his times, to the point that he was asked by the Accademia della Crusca (then, as today, the highest authority for all matters pertaining to the Italian language) to contribute to their vocabulary. Redi wrote: “The Pandora of modern musicians is an instrument with twelve strings [grouped] in six [double] courses. The mandolin has seven strings and four courses. The mandola has ten strings and five courses”. This clarifies both the difference and the kinship between these instruments.
The uncertainty found also in modern and contemporary discussions of these instruments is partly due to the wavering behaviour of some older authors. Fortunately, occasionally there were writers who sought to offer precise definitions, as was the case with Giampietro Pinaroli, who wrote, in the first half of the 18th century: “[The mandola] has ten strings [five double courses], of this number was also the ordinary ancient mandola; there is then the modern [mandola] and it contains twelve [strings], about which Father Filippo Bonanni of the Compagnia di Gesù was misled only assigning to it four strings, and it brings forth a very treble sound”.
The city whence the mandolin culture radiated was Rome, which was home to a very high number of luthiers, many of whom were of German origins – to the point that, until present-day, there is a Via dei Leutari (Luthiers’ Street) in the center of the Italian capital. In the eighteenth century, the most important luthiers specialized in mandolins were Giovanni Smorsone, David Tecchler, Benedetto Gualzatta, and Gaspar Ferrari. Arguably, therefore, also Francesco Webber (with an Italian first name and German family name) belonged in this particular subculture, and brought it successfully to Britain.
Chiara Bertoglio © 2024
Little is known about the life and career of Francesco Webber, an Italian musician and virtuoso who emigrated to Great Britain at an early age. It appears that he played the theorbo in Handel’s orchestra and, with certainty, taught the mandolin to Princess Amelia of Wales, the same princess depicted on the cover in a skillful portrait by Philippe Mercier around 1733. The fact that a noblewoman played the mandolin should not surprise us; on the contrary, the mandolin was widely appreciated and played across much of Europe at the time. The Venetian painter Pietro Longhi, for instance, captures this custom in his beautiful painting Il concertino.
Webber, a master in his field, chose to honor his student with a collection of sonatas—today preserved in the British Library in London—of undeniable technical and musical value. These are not mere exercises for beginners or pieces casually written to flatter an amateur; rather, they are genuine works of art. In these sonatas, the only extant examples of his music, Webber demonstrates a deep understanding of the instrument and the principles of composition. His confident writing, evident in both melody and basslines (reflecting his experience as a theorbist), reveals a range of influences.
It is likely that Webber’s association with Handel and the milieu he frequented shaped his taste, refining his style and distancing it from the frivolous trends of the time. While his music adheres to contemporary stylistic conventions, Webber exhibits a highly personal and at times unique voice, with flashes of true brilliance. His creativity shines particularly in the slow movements, where he employs daring harmonies and distinctive rhythmic patterns. Often imbued with pathos, these movements build emotional tension that resolves in moments of cathartic beauty, delighting the listener. In contrast, the fast movements, often highly virtuosic, sometimes prioritize technical passages over melodic development.
Webber’s intimate familiarity with the mandolin, being a mandolinist himself, ensures an idiomatic approach to the instrument. Musicians tackling his works will find no traps or awkward challenges; rather, his compositions flow effortlessly, as naturally as oil on a table. This period marked a turning point in mandolin writing: moving away from the more polyphonic, late-seventeenth-century approach, the instrument gained a new melodic identity. The five-course mandolin of the time, tuned in fourths and still closely related to lutes and theorboes (remember, the figure of the mandolinist as a distinct performer had yet to emerge), was naturally suited to melody.
Vivaldi, in his concertos, highlights the instrument’s lyrical qualities, especially in the Concerto RV 532, where two mandolins engage in a stunning dialogue. Similarly, Boni, a contemporary of Webber, treats the mandolin as equal to violins and flutes in his sonatas, crafting a writing style strikingly similar to Webber’s idiomatic approach.
Thus, Webber’s music, though still underappreciated by scholars and performers, undoubtedly belongs among the most significant works for mandolin we possess today. Beyond their extraordinary musical value, these sonatas serve as invaluable historical documents, offering a glimpse into the Italian diaspora’s cultural legacy abroad. Webber’s sonatas affirm with absolute certainty that the mandolin, already prominent in other European nations, was present in England during the first half of the eighteenth century. It is no coincidence that Handel, with whom Webber had professional ties, featured the mandolin in Cleopatra’s aria from Alexander Balus, an aria likely performed by none other than Francesco Webber himself.
Davide Ferella © 2024