LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
Missa solemnis in D Major, Op. 123
About the Work
The material circumstances surrounding
Beethoven’s writing of the Missa
solemnis can serve as little more than a backdrop against which to attempt
an understanding of the music. Beethoven’s decision to compose the work was
with a view toward a specific occasion: The Archduke Rudolph of Austria, the
son of Emperor Leopold II and one of Beethoven’s most important patrons—for
many years a student of Beethoven in piano and composition, dedicatee of 15
works by the composer, including the Fourth and Fifth piano concertos, the
“Hammerklavier” and Op. 111 piano sonatas, the Op. 97 Piano Trio (the “Archduke”),
and the Grosse Fuge, Op. 133—was to
be installed as Archbishop of Olmütz in Moravia on March 9, 1820. Upon hearing
of Rudolph’s election, Beethoven wrote to him that “the day on which a High
Mass composed by me will be performed during the ceremonies solemnized for Your
Imperial Highness will be the most glorious day of my life ...” Beethoven did
not complete the Mass in time for the
ceremony that March of 1820. Though he began formulating ideas for the
Kyrie by the spring of 1819 (anticipating the official announcement of the
Archduke’s election on June 4), the Mass did not reach completion until
December 1822, and during the period of its creation Beethoven was also
concerned with the last three piano sonatas, the “Diabelli” Variations and the
Op. 119 Bagatelles, the Consecration of
the House Overture, and the Ninth Symphony.
Many images of the composer dating from the time of the Missa solemnis are familiar: Anton Schindler, friend and not
entirely reliable biographer of the composer, describes Beethoven at work on
the fugue of the Credo, “singing, yelling, stamping his feet ... The door opened and Beethoven stood before us, his
features distorted to the point of inspiring terror. He looked as though he had
just engaged in a life-and-death struggle with the whole army of
contrapuntists, his everlasting enemies.” Another incident is related by Alexander Thayer in his crucial biography of the
composer: In this instance, we read of
Beethoven awakening early one morning, dressing, slipping on an old coat but no hat, apparently losing direction during
the course of his walk, peering in at the windows of nearby houses, and looking
so like a beggar that he was arrested and imprisoned for an entire day, until
he finally prevailed in having someone brought to identify him late that night.
These stories strengthen our image of the composer heedless of the world
around him, wrestling with his craft. Maynard Solomon refers to the Mass as
“Beethoven’s absorbing passion for four years, replacing Fidelio as the great ‘problem work’ of his career.” Schindler
states that never before or after this
period did he see Beethoven “in such a condition of Erdenentrücktheit,” oblivion of earthly matters.
But Beethoven did have “earthly
matters” to contend with as well. Not the least of these was the lawsuit
over guardianship of his nephew Karl, a five-year struggle that ended in April
1820 with Beethoven winning the boy away from his mother Johanna, widow of the
composer’s brother Caspar Carl. And then there were matters pertaining
specifically to the Missa solemnis:
his double-dealings with seven different publishers in an attempt to receive
the highest possible fee for his work, and his offering of prepublication
manuscript copies to whatever patrons would pay his price. There was the
matter, too, of the premiere. Beethoven was anxious that the completed Mass and
Ninth Symphony be heard. The original plan was to introduce the two works on
the same concert, but fortunately this notion was scrapped: The program on May 7,
1824, in Vienna’s Kärntnertor Theater consisted of the Consecration of the House Overture; the Kyrie, Credo, and Agnus Dei of the Mass (billed as “Three Grand Hymns
with Solo and Choral Parts”—liturgical music was not permitted in the
concert hall); and the symphony. Beethoven
never witnessed a complete performance of the Missa solemnis, though the first one was given in St. Petersburg on
April 18, 1824, under the auspices of Prince Nikolai Galitzin, a Russian
admirer of Beethoven who had purchased one of the prepublication copies of the
work and for whom Beethoven wrote his string quartets opp. 127, 130, and 132.
So much for history. As suggested at the outset, this very brief account of
names, dates, and places stands apart from consideration of the music itself.
The question of Beethoven’s religious beliefs might seem of some relevance, and
the composer’s diaries and notebooks include phrases copied from philosophical and
religious tracts. And we know that, in preparing to compose the Missa solemnis, Beethoven studied music
of Palestrina and his contemporaries, of Handel, and of Bach; that he had the
Mass text carefully translated so that its implications would be entirely clear
to him; and that the resulting musical product uses images and patterns that
may be traced to long-standing traditions and conventions in music written for
the church service. But still, the music makes its own statement, and it seems
best to understand that statement as one of an individual who has come to terms
with himself over a long period of time, and whose individual message will
ultimately be distilled into the compositional essence of the final piano
sonatas and string quartets. Martin Cooper writes that “as a young man
Beethoven was indeed both proud and self-sufficient, and it was only the
experience of his deafness that broke this pride, slowly and painfully turning
the heaven-storming, largely extrovert composer of the early and middle period
works into the self-communing and contemplative visionary of the last 10 years
… Beethoven moved from a position of militant stoicism ... to an acceptance
which, whatever his everyday life may have been, bears in his music the
unmistakable character of joy, that unearthly joy such as is only achieved
through suffering.” The Missa solemnis
speaks of joy and of suffering, of faith, hope, and trust. But it speaks, too,
of self-awareness, of knowledge of one’s place, and of awe in the face of greater
powers and events.
About the
Music
It has been said that the Missa solemnis
is out of place in the concert hall and yet too big for the church. It is
probably too big for any mortally prescribed
space. Beethoven wrote at the start of his score: “From the heart—may it
go to the heart,” and he stated that his chief aim was “to awaken and permanently instill religious feelings not only
into the singers but also into the listeners.” The opening Kyrie is marked Mit Andacht (“with devotion”). For the
more direct, personal appeal of the Christe, the soloists predominate and the
texture is more active. The unified intent of orchestra, chorus, and soloists
is spelled out at the very beginning: The woodwinds, in singing phrases, give
out the musical idea to which the initial words of the Kyrie will be sung, and
this same technique of instruments anticipating vocal material will occur again
for the Gratias agimus tibi and the Qui tollis peccata mundi of the Gloria.
The
sweep of the Gloria
is overwhelming in its impact; the overall impression is one of power and
inevitability, so much so, in fact, that the combined effect of Kyrie and
Gloria can leave the listener drained, almost unable to cope with or understand
what is still to follow. In keeping with its statement of faith and trust, the Credo
is affirmative in tone. The sense of musical motion in the Credo is rather
different from that of the Gloria—part of the reason for this lies in the more specific attention Beethoven gives to
word-painting and the emphasizing of key text phrases: for example, the burst
of D major at the words Et homo factus
est, the sforzato stabs at Crucifixus, the stressing of passus, the descending and ascending
motion at descendit de coelis and et ascendit in coelum, respectively.
The Sanctus,
like the Kyrie, is again marked Mit
Andacht, and is the first movement in which solo voices are heard before the chorus. This is in keeping with
Beethoven’s reserving the soloists for special moments of intimacy, awe, and/or
supplication (consider the miserere nobis
of the Gloria, and the intensification of that plea for mercy to o,
miserere nobis by, first, the tenor solo). The sense of the Sanctus is one
of mystery, with the chorus silent, held in reserve. The Benedictus is preceded
by a solemn orchestral Praeludium, and a tender, dolce cantabile violin song descends from above: Benedictus, qui venit in nomine Domini!
The mood, fittingly, is that of a solemn processional, and it is essential that
the solo instrument be a part of, and not, concerto-like, stand apart from, the
sense of ceremony that pervades the whole.
The threefold prayer of the Agnus Dei
is dark-hued, and the prominence again given the soloists makes the entreaty a
moving and personal one. The choral “Dona nobis pacem” bears the inscription
“Prayer for inner and outer peace,” and this prayer is threatened by
intimations of war in the form of trumpet-and-drum alarums and fearful currents
in the strings. Soloists and chorus renew the appeal for mercy, and the prayer
for peace returns, this time interrupted by a jagged fugato for orchestra. But the ultimate message is one of hope. The
last statement of the words dona nobis
pacem is set to a musical phrase heard several times earlier but only now
set apart to emphasize its particular breadth of feeling. The orchestra’s
response is at once simple, concise, and affirmative.