AN INTRODUCTION TO THE WORKS ON MDSC'S 2004 PROGRAM
by David Schildkret
| Text © 2008 David Schildkret.
If this content is used to prepare a concert program or
other published/presented work
please credit David Schildkret, ASU School of Music, and Music Director,
Mount Desert Summer Chorale (also include the URL of this web page).
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MUSICAL SETTINGS of various texts of the Mass are nearly as old as Christianity itself:
singing seems to have been part of the celebration of the Holy Supper from ancient times.
It had to wait for Machaut in the fourteenth century, however, before a composer set to
music the principal sections of the liturgy with the intention that they be sung at a single
worship service.
When musicians speak of a Mass, they refer to only a small portion of the rite. The five
traditional texts—Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, Sanctus and Benedictus, and Agnus Dei—are the
invariable portions of the service, known as the Ordinary or Common. Other portions of the
service, such as the Introit, Gradual, Epistle and Gospel readings, are known as the Proper.
They vary with the season of the year and the particular day or even the time of day that the
Mass is celebrated. It is important when hearing a concert performance of any Mass, whether
by Machaut or Schubert and Haydn, to remember that we are hearing only part of the liturgy.
There would be other words said; indeed, there would be other music sung in alternation with
the music we perform this evening. Nevertheless, by the late eighteenth century, there was
already a long tradition of Mass compositions that treated the five liturgical sections as a
musical whole. While concert performance certainly changes the context (and arguably distorts
the shape) of these compositions, they are certainly satisfying in such a performance. Changes
in Roman Catholic practice, especially with the Second Vatican Council in 1963, made works like
the ones we perform this evening less acceptable as the basis for a Catholic worship service.
With rare exceptions, the concert hall is the principal venue for these remarkable compositions,
written by every important composer from Machaut on, including Josquin des Prez, Palestrina,
Monteverdi, J.S. Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven.
By the time Haydn and Schubert composed their Masses (each of them wrote several),
there was a well-established practice for setting the texts. Each musical age had developed
its own esthetic for approaching Mass compositions: the late Middle Ages of Machaut favored
a complex technique of adapting plainchant melodies known as isorhythm; Renaissance composers
sought a mellifluous idiom that often concealed a well known popular song; Baroque composers
highlighted the emotion implicit in each line of the text, creating an elaborate succession of
arias, duets, and choruses. By the late Classical and early Romantic era represented on our
program, Mass settings tended to be concise, and the shape of the music reflected the sense of
order and balance that dominates the instrumental music of the period. By the time Schubert
and Haydn were writing, however, the Mass as a principal form of expression for a composer was
on the wane. Beethoven would write two Masses (one in C Major, and the monumental Missa Solemnis);
afterward, only Bruckner in the late nineteenth century would make a substantial contribution
to the genre.
* * *
FRANZ SCHUBERT was baptized in February, 1797, at the Lichtental parish church in Vienna (it is
known popularly today as the Schubert Church). The church serves a middle-class district where
Schubert’s father was a schoolmaster. In this same church only 18 years later, Schubert
performed his Mass in G Major, one of four such compositions he would produce for his home
parish. According to the dates on the manuscript of the G-Major Mass, he wrote it in just six
days in March of 1815. This astonishing accomplishment belongs to a period of extraordinary
output that Robert Winter in The New Grove describes as “virtually unrivalled in the history
of Western music.” In 1815, Schubert wrote over 100 songs, an average of one every three days.
The total of his music in all genres for the year 1815, Winter estimates, averaged 65 measures of
music per day—and this only takes into account the music from this year that has survived. It
is possible that the actual total is higher, since some music may have been discarded or lost.
(To put this in perspective, I remember the task of copying a score by Cherubini that was the
core of my doctoral dissertation: I set myself the very ambitious goal of writing out 50
measures per day. It was exhausting work that sometimes took as much as 12 hours to complete.
Of course, I was trying to create what is known as a fair copy—one free of erasures, corrections,
and other flaws—but I was only copying the music, not inventing it!). This achievement would be
remarkable enough if Schubert had devoted all of his waking hours to composition; in fact, at this
same time, according to Winter, he was teaching full-time in his father’s school, taking twice-weekly
composition lessons with the court composer Salieri, teaching private music lessons, and leading an
active life of concert going and socializing.
Despite this feverish activity, we would still consider the 18-year-old Schubert a youthful composer.
Around the same time that he wrote the Mass, he made his first attempt to set Goethe’s Erlkönig
to music, and he composed the masterpiece, Gretchen am Spinnrade (Gretchen at the Spinning-Wheel), but
most of his well-known songs and symphonic compositions were in the future. Indeed, his later Mass
settings, in particular the Masses in A-flat Major and E-flat Major, would be far more substantial
works than the Mass in G Major, which is scored only for a small string orchestra and a four-part chorus.
From the first notes of the piece, however, we realize that we are listening to a distinctive and mature
voice. Though simple and elegant, the Kyrie captures a feeling of urgency, especially in the middle
section. Here the soprano, in dramatic tones, calls upon Christ for mercy; the chorus first murmurs,
then calls out more anxiously in reply. This leads to a restatement of the Kyrie music. The A-B-A
structure is built into the prayer itself, which is an ancient Greek (not Latin) formula: “Kyrie
eleison” (Lord have mercy) is intoned three times, then “Christe eleison” (Christ have mercy)
three times, then “Kyrie eleison” three more times. While composers rarely honor the threefold
repetition of the words within each section, they usually acknowledge the tripartite structure of the
text as a whole, as Schubert does with this songlike ternary form.
Schubert employs a similar structure for the more complex Gloria. The text here is a challenge for the
composer: while the Kyrie contains only six words and thus allows the composer relatively free reign,
the Gloria and the following Credo are long texts, and it is difficult to keep the musical settings
from wandering. Schubert uses two techniques to solve the problem. The scale that appears in the
orchestra to begin the movement forms a unifying motif, and Schubert fits the text into a three-part
form: there is a festive opening section as befits the celebratory tone of the text; a quieter section
sets the prayer for mercy at the center of the piece (“Domine Deus”—Lord God); and for the
concluding section (“Quoniam tu solus sanctus”—For you alone are holy) the music of the opening
returns. By overlapping words between the soprano and bass soloists in the middle section, Schubert
further compresses the text.
The Credo, a longer text than the Gloria, presents an even greater challenge. While it does include
some dramatic language, especially in its description of Jesus’ incarnation, suffering, death, and
resurrection, the Creed contains mostly abstract ideas that do not readily suggest musical imagery.
Schubert does not force the issue: instead, he has the choir (the soloists do not appear in this
movement) intone the words mostly in static, block chords over a steady quarter-note rhythm in the
orchestra. At first it sounds as though the pattern in the orchestral bass will repeat continually
like the old idea of a ground bass, but after two statements the literal repetition stops and only
the rhythm and shape remain. The quarter-note figure stops as the resurrection is announced
(“Et resurrexit”—And rose again). For the final section, “Credo in Spiritum Sanctum,”
(I believe in the Holy Spirit) Schubert brings back the music of the opening, thus creating another
three-part structure.
For the Sanctus, Schubert looks back to a Baroque tradition. From the time of Louis XIV, this sort
of slow music with dotted rhythms had symbolized the king. Schubert, perhaps following Mozart’s
example, uses it to describe the Lord of Hosts—the King of Heaven, by implication. The Osanna
treats the four voices of the chorus independently for the first time in the work. In this little
passage of counterpoint, effective enough but occasionally awkward to sing, Schubert demonstrates
his knowledge of traditional, learned compositional devices. But his heart isn’t in it; the
Osanna gives way as soon as possible to a much more Schubertian expression: the limpid Benedictus.
This is essentially a theme and variations: the soprano soloist sings the fluid melody, with its
yearning chromaticism, to a simple accompaniment in the strings. Then the tenor takes up the tune
for the first variation. The accompaniment becomes a bit more agitated, and the soprano’s new
melody soars delicately above the texture. As the bass joins to sing the main melody in the third
and final variation, the accompaniment becomes even more elaborate, and the upper voices weave around
him in a magnificently simple yet shimmering array. Here, where Schubert is more concerned with
melody and less with formal rules, the counterpoint is natural, achieving a transcendent beauty.
As required by the liturgy, a repetition of the Osanna follows.
The structure of the final movement, the Agnus Dei, is again suggested by the form of the text in
the service: the words “Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi” (Lamb of God, who takes away the
sin of the world) are repeated three times. The first two times they are followed by the refrain,
“miserere nobis” (have mercy on us). The last time, the conclusion is “dona nobis pacem”
(grant us peace). The opening of each statement is supplied by a soloist—the soprano for the first
and third statement, the bass for the middle one—with the chorus joining to supply the refrain.
The solo writing again reminds us that we are listening to the work of a great song composer, and
the quiet ending reminds us that while we have reached the end of Schubert’s composition, we have
not reached the end of the service.
* * *
THE CIRCUMSTANCES THAT LED to the composition of Haydn’s Missa in Angustiis could not have been more
different from those surrounding Schubert’s Mass in G Major. Schubert was a young composer writing
for a local church; Haydn was an internationally-known artist writing for an aristocratic family. Haydn’s
Mass would be sung first in the distinguished Esterhazy court, and later for the royalty of the
Austro-Hungarian Empire; Schubert’s Mass was sung before tradesmen in a middle-class church.
Haydn was an old man (by eighteenth-century standards) of 66; Schubert was a boy of 18. Even the
political situation was entirely different: when Haydn wrote his Mass, Napoleon had come within 70
miles of Vienna, and the city had surrendered to him. In 1814, the year before Schubert wrote his
Mass, Napoleon had been forced to abdicate, his army having been defeated at Leipzig, and Paris captured
by his enemies. While he enjoyed a brief resurgence in 1815—the so-called Hundred Days’ Reign
began at the very time that Schubert was writing his Mass—Vienna had long since emerged from Napoleonic domination.
The Hundred Days, which began in March 1815, ended with the Battle of Waterloo in June of 1815.
Napoleon would no longer pose a credible threat to Europe.
But Haydn’s Missa in Angustiis (1798) belongs to the period in which Napoleon’s star was in the
ascendant, and all Europe feared his dominion. The title of Haydn’s work is hauntingly telling:
variously translated as “distress,” “difficulty,” or “fear,” the angustiis of the title
tells us that this Mass does not belong to ordinary times. (The Latin word literally refers to a narrow
place or a strait, so the most accurate translation might be “Mass in Straitened Times.” We still
occasionally refer to a suffering person as being in “straitened circumstances.”) Two years earlier,
in 1796, Haydn had titled his annual Mass to celebrate the name-day of Prince Esterhazy’s consort Missa
in tempore belli—Mass in Time of War. (He did not write a Mass for the name-day in 1797, probably
because he was occupied with composing The Creation; he must have reused an earlier work that year.)
The fearful times may account for the relatively modest forces called for in the work. Among Haydn’s
late Masses, the Missa in Angustiis uses the smallest and most austere instrumentation: strings,
three trumpets, and drums.
Sometime after the piece was written, it came to be known as the Lord Nelson Mass, but the connection between
the British naval hero and this Mass is not entirely clear. There are two plausible justifications for the
popular title. The most likely one is that this Mass may have been sung in Vienna during Nelson’s triumphal
progress through Europe on his way from Italy to England in 1800—there are even reports that Nelson and
Emma Hamilton, Nelson’s mistress, visited Haydn at Eisenstadt during this trip. Another explanation is
that the Mass was written in 1798, the same year that Nelson dealt a decisive blow to Napoleon’s navy at
Aboukir (today spelled Abu Qir) Bay in Egypt, in what was popularly known as the Battle of the Nile, though
news of Nelson’s great victory did not reach Austria until some time after the Mass was written and first
performed. However it came about, the association of Lord Nelson, one of the most idolized figures in European
history, with this Mass guaranteed its popularity and its immortality.
Compared with Schubert’s intimate, lyrical setting of the Mass, Haydn’s work is expansive and dramatic.
This is immediately apparent in the opening notes of the Kyrie, which begins with the strings outlining a
d-minor chord and the trumpets and drums performing a fanfare that will recur frequently in this movement.
The choral writing is strong and insistent, with the word “Kyrie” almost shouted in a figure that
leaps down an octave. As the movement progresses, the imitative entrances of the choir create a restless
atmosphere. It is possible to view this movement’s structure in comparison to the first movements of
Haydn’s symphonies: the opening Kyrie forms the first theme; the soprano’s melody at the words
“Christe eleison” is the second theme. An extended development section begins with the choir’s
imitative singing of the words “Kyrie eleison,” a somewhat unusual move for Haydn, who would
normally save the “Kyrie” words for the recapitulation. The first theme returns with the powerful
unison statement of the words “Kyrie eleison,” as the soprano soars above the texture in anxious
flourishes, recalling the second theme.
If the Kyrie appropriately expresses the angustiis of the work’s title, the distress is dispelled
with the opening notes of the sunny Gloria. As is typical of Haydn’s late Masses, the text here
is divided among three movements. Recalling the early form of the symphony, the first section,
“Gloria in excelsis Deo” (Glory to God in the highest) is fast and in the celebratory key
of D major, which seems especially bright after the somber D minor of the Kyrie. “Qui tollis
peccata mundi” (who takes away the sin of the world) is slow and lyrical, featuring the bass
soloist, with interjections by the choir. It is in B-flat major, an unusual choice of key that
already points ahead to the third relationships favored by Beethoven and Schubert. “Quoniam
tu solus santus” (For you alone are holy) brings back the fast music of the opening in the
original key of D major. Note that Schubert would divide the text similarly in his piece 17 years
later; both works follow established Viennese tradition in this regard. The difference here is
that, while Schubert treats all the words in a single movement, Haydn divides them into three movements
with separate tempos and different keys.
The Credo is similarly divided into three movements. The first, “Credo in unum Deum” (I believe
in one God) uses an unusual device: the altos and basses follow the sopranos and tenors in a
two-part round, or canon. This is a musical pun on Haydn’s part: “canon” is a rule or
law, and the Credo is the rule or law that is the basis of the Christian religion. The slower
“Et incarnatus” (and was incarnated) features the soloists. The last section, “Et
resurrexit” (and rose again) keeps emphasizing the word “Et” (and) in a jocular way,
as if to say, “wait, there’s more!” Above the choir’s intoning of the text, the
violins weave the kind of virtuoso line that prompted the conductor Margaret Hillis to describe
the Lord Nelson Mass as “a violin concerto with chorus.”
The Sanctus begins slowly, leading to the faster “pleni sunt coeli et terra gloria tua” (heaven
and earth are full of your glory) which again employs imitative writing. The Benedictus returns to the
key of D minor and again evokes the angustiis of the title. It is at first lyrical, and like the
Schubert setting of this text it can be seen as an elaboration of a simple tune. But it is much more
expansive than the Schubert, and its very proportions capture the sense of distress, anguish, and fear.
This is capped by a final statement of the text by the chorus, almost incongruous in its torment:
they demand a savior, while the trumpets and drums play music of decidedly military character.
The sunny Osanna that follows is almost hollow in its optimism.
Perhaps there is no better expression of its times than the final section, Agnus Dei. The opening
words are set in a lovely, slow introduction to the main movement, which focuses on the last three
words of the text: “dona nobis pacem” (grant us peace). The movement is at turns happy, in
the optimistic hope that the prayer will be granted, and more tentative in the fear that it may not
be. By devoting nearly twice as many measures to these words as to all of those that precede them in
the Agnus Dei, Haydn makes a plain statement: above all, we desire peace. It is a prayer that we
can offer with similar feeling and urgency today.
—David Schildkret
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