Selected letters of Mendelssohn/Letter 8

by Felix Mendelssohn

TO PROFESSOR ZELTER OF BERLIN.

Rome, 16th June, 1831.

My Dear Professor,—I have been wanting to write to you for a long time to give you an account of the music of Holy Week, but my journey to Naples came between, and then, as I wandered here and there on the mountains or gave myself up to looking at the sea, there was no reasonable time for writing at all. That was the cause of my delay, which I must beg you to excuse. Since Holy Week I have heard nothing that impressed me. In Naples it was the most ordinary stuff; so I have nothing to write to you of the last few months but of that Holy Week alone, and of that I think I have forgotten nothing, nor ever shall. I have already written something to my parents of the effect it produced on me as a whole, and they will have told you of it. It was well that I set myself to listen to it all quite quietly and critically, and also well that, in spite of this, even while awaiting the commencement of the service, a sense of solemnity and reverence came over me. Such a mood, I believe, is essential if one is really to enter into anything new, and, indeed, I lost nothing of the effect of the whole, though I forced myself to attend to all the individual parts as well. The office commenced at half-past four on Wednesday with the antiphon—“Zelus domus tuae.” The little book containing the services appointed for the week explains the true meaning of the whole series of offices:—

“At that evensong three psalms are sung, that we may remember how Christ died for maidens, for matrons, and for widows; they also have reference to the three divisions of law, the natural law, the written law, and the law of the Gospel. The ‘Domine labia mea’ and the ‘Deus in adjutorium’ are not sung, since the wicked have robbed us of our one Head and Source. The fifteen candles symbolise the twelve apostles and the three Maries,” and so forth. The book contains great treasures of this kind, and I will bring it back with me. The psalms are sung fortissimo by all the male voices divided into two choirs, each verse being divided into two parts, as question and answer, or say simply a and b, so that one choir sings a, and the other responds with b. The whole sentence except the last word, is sung very fast on one note, and at the last word there comes a brief inflexion, which differs in each verse.

To this chant or “tonus,” as they call it, they sing through all the verses of the psalm, and I have noted down seven different ones, from one to another of which they changed during the three days. You cannot imagine how wearisome and monotonous this comes to sound, how coarse and mechanical is their way of getting through with it.

For example, the first “tonus” they sang was:—

Coro I.

Coro II.

And in that way the whole psalm with the forty-two verses continues, one half-verse always ending on G A G, the other on G E G. They sing without variety of expression, and it sounds as if a number of people were earnestly and fiercely disputing, and each side doggedly repeating the same reply over and over again. In the last verse of each psalm they sing the closing words more slowly, and with greater emphasis, and, instead of the inflexion, end with a sustained chord of three notes sung piano, for example, in the first:

At the commencement of each psalm comes an antiphon, or several, by way of prelude; usually these in “canto fermo” are sung by two altos very coarsely and harshly, so, too, is the first half verse of the psalm itself, and at the second the system of responses by the male choirs comes into play. I am keeping by me the separate antiphons, etc., which I have noted down, so as to show them to you, and let you see them in their connection with the book. On the Wednesday evening the first psalm sung was the 68th, and then the 69th and 70th. The dividing of the verses and their partition between the two choirs is, by the way, one of the arrangements that Bunsen has made for the Protestant church here, and in the same way he has every chorale preluded by an antiphon. The latter are composed by Giorgio, a native musician; they are written in the style of the “canto fermo,” and are commenced by a few voices, the chorale with the full choir coming in later, e. g., “Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott.” In the Quirinal the 70th psalm is followed by a “Pater Noster sub silentio,” that is to say, all assisting at the office stand up, and a short interval of silence takes place. Then the first “Lamentation of Jeremiah” is commenced very softly and quietly in G major. It is a beautiful and solemn composition of Palestrina; following on that clamour of psalms, itself without bass parts, and including only high solo voices and tenor, with the tenderest of swells and falls almost dropping into silence and always slowly drawing out its harmony from one scale and chord to another, one can, indeed, only call it heavenly.

It is a misfortune, to be sure, that the passages which they sing with the most appealing devotion, and which it is also clear the composer himself dwelt on most affectionately, are of necessity the mere headings of the chapters or verses—Aleph, Beth, Gimel, etc., and that the beautiful opening which one would think the very echo of heaven, falls on the words, “Incipit Lamentatio Jeremiae Prophetae Lectio I.” This is bound to stir up some hostile feeling in a Protestant, and would make almost an insuperable objection to introducing these compositions into our churches; when some one sings the words, “first chapter,” one cannot feel reverential however exquisite the music may be. My little volume says, indeed, “Having sung with deep anguish the prophecy of the crucifixion, we yet sing very mournfully ‘Aleph,’ and other such words, which are the letters of the Hebrew alphabet, since they are customarily received in every chant in place of sorrowful exclamations. Each letter contains in itself the sentiment of the following verse as though it were its argument and epitome.” But that does not mend matters. After the “Lamentatio” they sang the 71st, 72nd, and 73rd psalms, in the same manner as the preceding, with antiphons. The latter were divided among the different voices quite arbitrarily, so that, in one instance, the sopranos begin, “In Monte Oliveti,” then the basses come in forte, “Oravit ad Patrem; Pater,” etc. Then follow extracts from the writings of St. Augustine on the Psalms. The peculiar manner in which these are sung impressed me indescribably on Palm Sunday, when I first heard them without knowing what they were.

A single voice takes up the chant in recitative on one note, not, however, as in the psalms, but slowly, and with emphasis, and giving the note its full value. For the punctuations, comma, query, and full stop, there are different musical intonations. Possibly these are known to you already; to me they were new, and seemed quite wonderful. The first piece, for example, was begun by a fine bass voice in G, then coming to a comma he sings:—

On the last word

at a question

At a full stop, however,

as, e. g.,

How singular the fall from A to C sounds is more than I can describe, especially when after the bass comes a soprano starting on D, and then making an equivalent fall from E to G, and then perhaps an alto on his note, and so on. And thus they sung three different Lectiones, always alternating with the “Canto fermo.” For an example of how they sang the “Canto fermo” utterly without regard to words or sense, the fragment, “It were better for that man that he had never been born,” was given like this:

Allegro.

fortissimo, without any variety of tone.

Then came psalms 74, 75, and 76. Then again three Lectiones. Then the Miserere, but in the same style as the preceding psalms—thus:—

Coro I.

Coro II.

You must pound your ears in a mortar to beat it! Then come psalms 8, 62, and 66, then the “Canticun Moysi” in a key of its own, and psalms 148, 149, and 150. Then follow more antiphons, and meanwhile all the candles on the altar are extinguished but one which is placed beneath the altar. High above the entrance six tapers are still burning, all else is dark; and now the whole choir in unison commences with full power the “Canticum Zachariae” while the last candles are put out. The great forte sounding in the darkness, and the solemn resonance of all the voices in unison, are beautiful beyond description. The melody in D minor is lovely too. At the end all is in darkness; an antiphon falls on the words: “He that betrayed Him gave them a sign,” and so on to “take Him and lead Him away.” At this point all the assistants fall on their knees, and a single voice sings, piano, “Christus factus est pro nobis obediens usque ad mortem.” On the second day they add the words, “mortem autem crucis,” and on Good Friday, “Propter quod et Deus exaltavit illum et dedit illi Nomen quod est super omne Nomen.” Again there is a pause, while everyone repeats the Pater Noster to himself; there is a death-like stillness in the chapel, and now the Miserere rises, at first soft-toned and then caught up by both choirs. It was this commencement with its first penetrating notes that made the deepest impression of all on me. For an hour and a half one had listened to unison singing without variety; and now after the silence comes this beautifully arranged harmony. The effect is splendid, and the hearer feels the power of music in his heart of hearts. It is this piece which is most peculiarly striking. They reserve the best voices for the “Miserere,” and render it with very great variation, swelling and falling from the lightest piano to the whole power of the voices. It is no wonder that everyone is captivated by it.

It is important, too, that they never forget their principle of contrast, and have each alternative verse sung by all the male voices in unison, forte, and without expression. Then at the commencement of the next comes the beautiful soft and full harmony of the part singing, always lasting a very short time, and then interrupted again by the chorus of male voices. During the monotone verse one has the presentiment of this lovely alternation; then it breaks forth again and again too briefly, and before one is well aware of it, it is gone.

For example, on the first day when they had Baini’s Miserere, the keynote was B minor, and they sang “Miserere mei Deus” down to the “Misericordiam tuam” in unison, the solo voices and the two choirs joining in with all their vocal resources; then came in the basses “tutti forte” in F sharp, and on this single note gave as recitative the “et secundum multitudinem” down to “iniquitatem meam.” Immediately after that the soft harmony in B minor returns, and so it goes to the last verse, which is always sung with all the power possible. Another brief interval of mental prayer follows, and then all the cardinals scrape their feet loudly on the floor, with which the ceremony closes. My little volume says, “The noise signifies how the Jews took our Lord captive with great tumult.” That maybe so, but it sounds precisely like the drumming of feet in the pit when the play is delayed or fails to win favour. The single taper is now brought from beneath the altar, and by its light the congregation silently departs. I must say it is a marvellous effect when one steps from the chapel into the ante-chapel where a noble chandelier is burning, and the cardinals with their attendant priests pass between ranks of the Swiss guard through the blazing Quirinal. The Miserere given the first day was by Baini, and, like all his compositions, without a touch of life or power.

However, it had good harmony, and the quality of music which always makes an impression. On the second day they gave some pieces of Allegri’s Miserere, the other days pieces from Bai, and on Good Friday the whole was Bai’s.

As Allegri has only composed a single verse, to which all the verses are sung, I have really heard the whole of the three compositions. However, they sing much the same thing throughout, for they give the same variations, “embellimenti,” in any case, an especial one for each harmony, so the composition in itself is not very apparent.

How these “embellimenti” found their way in, they decline to say, maintaining that they are traditional. I do not believe it; musical tradition, in general, is a dubious matter, and I do not know how a piece of five-voice part-singing could be well handed down by hearsay; it doesn’t seem probable. The variations have obviously been worked in by a later composer, and it seems to me the director must have had several good high voices, which he would naturally wish to bring out on the occasion of Holy Week, and so have composed these embellishments of the simple harmonies in order to give them free scope and an opportunity of display. Old they certainly are not, but they are written with great taste and skill, and produce an admirable effect.

There is one in particular which often recurs and is the most impressive of all, so much so that when it commences a slight movement passes through the auditory, whatever sort of people compose it; and in conversation whenever this style of music is spoken of, and you hear people talk of how the voices ring out as though less human than angelic, or of a harmony that one can hear but once, it is always this particular variation that is meant. Thus in the Miserere, whether Bai’s or Allegri’s (the same “embellimento” occur in either), the original is:—

instead of which they sing:—

The way in which the soprano takes that high C quite clearly and softly, making it resound at length, and then dropping slowly down, while the alto all the time maintains his own C, so that at first I was deceived, and fancied the high C had been sustained; that and all the gradual development of the harmony from itself is truly glorious. The other variations are worked into the original in the same way, but this one is by far the most beautiful.

I did not observe any other peculiarities of style. Certainly what I once read of an acoustic arrangement to multiply the sound is a mere fable, and so is the assertion that they sing everything by sheer tradition, and without direction, taking the time from one another, for beyond doubt, I saw the shadow of Baini’s long arm moving up and down, and every now and then he struck very audibly on the woodwork of his stall.

There is, indeed, a good deal of uncertainty on various points, spread about by the singers themselves as well as by other people. They never say beforehand what Miserere will be sung; it is decided at the very moment, etc. Besides this, the way in which they sing it depends on the condition of the voices. The first day it was B minor, the second and third E minor, but on each occasion they ended up nearly in B flat minor. The leading soprano, Mariano, had come expressly from the mountains to Rome to join the choir, and to him I owe my hearing the “embellimenti” with their high notes.

But however much they brace themselves up for the great effort, the neglect and the bad habits of the rest of the year still take their revenge, and appalling discords sometimes break out. I must tell you, also, how on the Thursday I climbed upon a ladder that was leaning against the wall just as the Miserere commenced, and so, getting up close to the roof, had the music and the priests and all the auditory far beneath me in the darkness. Sitting up there alone, with none of those wearisome strangers round one, I was more impressed than ever. And now to continue! You will have enough Miserere on this page and a half, and some particular points I can tell you when I get back or let you see my notes. At half-past ten on Thursday there was High Mass. They sang a composition for eight voices by Fazzini, which had just nothing remarkable in it. I am keeping by me several “cante fermi” and antiphons which I wrote down at the time, and the little book contains the order of the office and explanations of its meaning. At the “Gloria in excelsis” all the bells in Rome are sounded, and after that are silent till Good Friday is over. The hours are announced from the churches by the striking together of pieces of wood. It was very beautiful that the words of the “Gloria,” which were the signal for all the wild uproar, should be chanted from the altar by the aged Cardinal Pacca in a weak quavering voice, which ceased and was succeeded by the crash of the choir and all the bells of Rome. After the “Credo,” they put the “Fratres ego enim” of Palestrina, but sang it with no sort of attention and very coarsely. I have already sent a description to my father and mother of the washing of the pilgrim’s feet, which comes next, and the procession, in which the choir also walks, with Baini beating time out of a great book which is carried before him, and signalling now to one, now to another of the singers, who walk bent over their notes, halting at times, and then moving on again, and in the procession goes the Holy Father himself, carried on his throne of state. In the evening the Psalms, lamentations, Lections, and Miserere were as on the previous day, with only slight differences. One Lection was given by a single soprano to a curious melody, which I am bringing you. It is an adagio in long notes, and lasts certainly more than a quarter of an hour; the voice has not the slightest pause, and the key is very high. Nevertheless, the whole was gone through with the clearest, purest, most unfailing intonation; the singer never dropped a hairbreadth, and his last note rose and sank just as evenly and roundly as the first; it was masterly. I was also struck by the sense they attach to the word “appoggiatura.” For example, if the melody passes from C to D or from C to E, they sing:

or,

or,

and this auxiliary note they call an “appoggiatura.” But they may call it what they will, it is a fearful thing, and one needs to become familiar with it not to be quite put out by this strange performance, which really reminded me of nothing so much as of our old women at church. The melody itself, as I said before, was a different matter. However, I saw beforehand from my book that the “Tenebrae” would form part of the service, and thinking it would interest you to know how it was sung in the papal chapel, I remained on the watch with my pencil sharpened till it came, and now set down for you the leading passages. (Again they sang it quite fast, forte all the way through without the least exception.) The commencement was:—

Tenori.

Bassi.

then later

I cannot help it. It drives me beside myself to hear the holiest and loveliest of words sung in such a casual, humdrum style. They say it is plain song; it is Gregorian, that makes no difference. If, indeed, in those times men had no deeper feelings or no finer resources, still we are in no such case, and truly there is, in the words of the Bible, no motive at all for this monotonous formula. Everything there is fresh and true, and the expression always as good and natural as it can be; why, then, should it be made to sound so formal? And really, there is nothing in such a style of music. How can one give the name of church-music to that “Pater” with the little flourish, the “Meum” with a quaver, the “ut quid me?” To be sure, there is no false expression in it, for there is no expression at all; but is that not just the utter desecration of the words? A hundred times during the ceremony I felt furious; and when people came to me quite in ecstasy about the beauty of it all, it seemed to me like a bad joke, and yet they were quite in earnest!

At early Mass on Good Friday the chapel was stripped of all ornament, the altar bare, the pope and cardinals in mourning. The “Passio secundum Johannem,” a composition by Vittoria, was now sung. But only the words of the chorus of the people are really his; the rest was arranged in a way which I will describe later. From time to time I felt keenly how petty and constrained it was. I became deeply irritated, and indeed the entire work quite failed to please me. Really, there are only two methods possible; either the Passion must be calmly laid before us as a narrative by the priest, as in the record of St. John, and in that case there is no need of any choir to strike in, “Crucifige eum,” or of an alto to represent Pilate. Or else, the Passion itself must be made present to me, so that I may feel myself a witness of it all. The Pilate must sing as he may have spoken, the choir must shriek “Crucifige,” and that in no ecclesiastical accents. But then, in its inward truth and in virtue of the story it would make present to us, that music would be truly religious music. Then I should need no “associations” with the music, for the music would be no longer an “instrument to raise the mind to devotion,” as these people conceive it, but it would be a language that spoke to me, and the meaning be expressed only by the words themselves, embodied only in them. Thus it is with Sebastian Bach’s Passion music; but even this, as they sing it here, is only a sort of compromise, neither simple narration nor great dramatic, passionate truth. The choir sings “Barabbam” in just the same devotional accents as “Et in terra pax.” Pilate is made to speak in the same tone as the evangelist. The words of Jesus are always commenced piano, to give them a sort of distinction, while the choir is strenuously shouting its ecclesiastical phrases. One really fails to see what it is all about. But pardon my comments, and I will go on at once with my description.

The evangelist is a tenor, and the style of recitation is the same as in the Lections, with special cadences for comma, query, and full stop. The evangelist recites on D, and at a full stop changes thus:—

At a comma

and at the end when another person comes in

Christ is represented by a bass, and always begins:—

I could not get hold of the scheme, but I have noted down several passages, which I can show you, among others the words from the Cross. All the other speakers, Pilate, Peter, the maid, and the high priest, are now represented by the alto in G.

The words of the People are sung by the choir above, all the rest from the altar. I must set down for you the “Crucifige” as I noted it, for the sake of its strangeness.

The “Barabbam,” too, is curious; they are the mildest of Jews. But this letter is already too long, so I will be silent about the rest. Now come the prayers for all nations and institutions, each named individually. But at the prayer for the Jews no one kneels as is done during the others, and no amen is said; they pray “pro perfidis Judaeis,” and the little book has its explanation for this too. Then comes the adoration of the Cross. A small crucifix is placed in the middle of the chapel, and all the assistants approach it with naked feet, that is, without shoes, fall before it, and kiss it. Meanwhile the Improperia are sung.

After a single hearing this seems to me one of the most beautiful compositions of Palestrina, and they sing it with especial appreciation. The treatment of this piece by the choir brings out a marvellous tenderness and great precision; they succeed in placing every minute detail in its true light and its true relief, without the least over-emphasis; each chord melts quite softly into the next. And the ceremony is truly solemn and worthy of the occasion. The deepest silence reigns in the chapel, and the ever returning Greek “Sanctus” is very beautifully sung, also with the same softness and the same expression. They would be surprised, however, to see it written down, for what they sing is this:—

Coro I.

Da Capo thrice.

Points like the commencement of this, where all the voices unite in one grace-note, occur very often, and one becomes accustomed to them. The whole, however, is really noble. I wish you could hear the tenor of the first choir take the high A on Theos. The way in which they bring out the tone is so penetrating and yet so gentle, that the effect is most touching. This passage they repeated till all in the chapel had knelt before the crucifix, and as it happened that there was no great crowd, I unluckily did not hear it so often as I would have wished. But I can well understand why the Improperia made the greatest impression on Goethe; it is really the most complete of rituals, music and ceremonial meeting there in their fullest measure. There follows now a procession of the host which on the evening before had been placed in another chapel of the Quirinal and adored there by the light of many hundred tapers. After that the office for the mornimg came to an end about half-past one with a hymn in plain song. At half-past four the first “nocturnum,” commenced with psalms, lections, etc., and I took notes of several things. I heard Baini’s Miserere, and about seven we took our way behind the cardinals through the lighted vestibule homewards. And thus it all came to an end. I wished to give you an exact description of the Holy Week, dear professor, for to me those were beautiful days, and every hour brought something I had long waited for, and made it mine. I was especially pleased that in spite of the strain and all the comments from this side or that, praising or blaming, the whole made just as fresh and living an impression on me as though I had come independently and without prepossession, and I saw it once more established that whatever is perfect, even though it be in the sphere most distant from one’s own, still has the power of perfection. And so may you read this long letter with half the joy it has given me to recall my Holy Week in Rome!

Your faithful
Felix Mendlessohn Bartholdy.