Rome, June 16, 1831. - Letters of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy from Italy and Switzerland - 45 - Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy

Rome, June 6th, 1831.Florence, June 25th, 1831.

Rome, June 16, 1831.

Dear Professor,

It was my intention some time ago to have written you a description of the music during the Holy Week, but my journey to Naples intervened, and during my stay there, I was so constantly occupied in wandering among the mountains, and in gazing at the sea, that I had not a moment's leisure to write; hence arose the delay for which I now beg to apologize. Since then I have not heard a single note worth remembering; in Naples the music is most inferior. During the last two months, therefore, I have no musical reminiscences to send you, save those of the Holy Week, which however made so indelible an impression on my mind, that they will be always fresh in my memory. I already described to my parents the effect of the whole ceremonies, and they probably sent you the letter.

It was fortunate that I resolved to listen to the various Offices with earnest and close attention, and still more so, that from the very first moment I felt sensations of reverence and piety. I consider such a mood indispensable for the reception of new ideas, and no portion of the general effect escaped me, although I took care to watch each separate detail.

The ceremonies commenced on Wednesday, at half past four o'clock, with the antiphon "Zelus domus tuæ." A little book containing the Offices for the Holy Week explains the sense of the various solemnities. "Each Nocturn contains three Psalms, signifying that Christ died for all, and also symbolical of the three laws, the natural, the written, and the evangelical. The 'Domine labia mea' and the 'Deus in adjutorium' were not sung on this occasion, when the death of our Saviour and Master is deplored, as slain by the hands of wicked godless men. The fifteen lights represent the twelve apostles and the three Marys." (In this manner the book contains much curious information on this subject, so I mean to bring it with me for you.) The Psalms are chanted fortissimo by all the male voices of two choirs. Each verse is divided into two parts, like a question and answer, or rather, classified into A and B; the first chorus sings A, and the second replies with B. All the words, with the exception of the last, are sung with extreme rapidity on one note, but on the last they make a short "melisma," which is different in the first and second verse. The whole Psalm, with all its verses, is sung on this melody, or tono as they call it, and I wrote down seven of these toni, which were employed during the three days. You cannot conceive how tiresome and monotonous the effect is, and how harshly and mechanically they chant through the Psalms. The first tonus which they sang was—

Thus the whole forty-two verses of the Psalm are sung in precisely the same manner; one half of the verse ending in G, A, G, the other in G, E, G. They sing with the accent of a number of men quarrelling violently, and it sounds as if they were shouting out furiously one against another. The closing words of each Psalm are chanted more slowly and impressively, a long "triad" being substituted for the "melisma," sung piano. For instance, this is the first:—

An antiphon, and sometimes more than one, serves as an introduction to each Psalm. These are generally sung by two counter-tenor voices, in canto fermo, in harsh, hard tones; the first half of each verse in the same style, and the second responded to by the chorus of male voices that I already described. I have kept the several antiphons that I wrote down, that you may compare them with the book. On the afternoon of Wednesday, the 68th, 69th, and 70th Psalms were sung. (By the bye, this division of the verses of the Psalms sung in turns by each chorus, is one of the innovations that Bunsen has introduced into the Evangelical Church here; he also ushers in each choral by an antiphon, composed by Georg, a musician who resides here, in the style of canti fermi, first sung by a few voices, succeeded by a choral, such as "Ein' feste Burg ist unser Gott.") After the 70th Psalm comes a paternoster sub silentio—that is, all present stand up, and a short silent inward prayer ensues, and a pause.

Then commences the first Lamentation of Jeremiah, sung in a low subdued tone, in the key of G major, a solemn and fine composition of Palestrina's. The solos are chanted entirely by high tenor voices, swelling and subsiding alternately, in the most delicate gradations, sometimes floating almost inaudibly, and gently blending the various harmonies; being sung without any bass voices, and immediately succeeding the previous harsh intonation of the Psalms, the effect is truly heavenly. It is rather unfortunate however that those very parts which ought to be sung with the deepest emotion and reverence, being evidently those composed with peculiar fervour, should chance to be merely the titles of the chapter or verse, aleph, beth, gimel, etc., and that the beautiful commencement, which sounds as if it came direct from Heaven, should be precisely on these words, "Incipit Lamentatio Jeremiæ Prophetæ Lectio I." This must be not a little repulsive to every Protestant heart, and if there be any design to introduce a similar mode of chanting into our churches, it appears to me that this will always be a stumbling-block; for any one who sings "chapter first" cannot possibly feel any pious emotions, however beautiful the music may be, let him strive as he will.

My little book indeed says, "Vedendo profetizzato il crocifiggimento con gran pietà, si cantano eziandio molto lamentevolmente aleph, e le altre simili parole, che sono le lettere dell' alfabeto Ebreo, perchè erano in costume di porsi in ogni canzone in luogo di lamento, come è questa. Ciascuna lettera ha in se, tutto it sentimento di quel versetto che la segue, ed è come un argomento di esso;" but this explanation is not worth much. After this the 71st, 72nd, and 73rd Psalms are sung in the same manner, with their antiphons. These are apportioned to the various voices. The soprano begins, "In monte Oliveti," on which the bass voices chime in forte, "Oravit ad Patrem: Pater," etc. Then follow the lessons, from the treatise of Saint Augustine on the Psalms. The strange mode in which these are chanted appeared to me very extraordinary when I heard them for the first time on Palm Sunday, without knowing what it meant. A solitary voice is heard reciting on one note, not as in the Psalms, but very slowly and impressively, making the tone ring out clearly.

There are different cadences employed for the different punctuation of the words, to represent a comma, interrogation, and full stop. Perhaps you are already acquainted with these: to me they were a novelty, and appeared very singular. The first, for example, was chanted by a powerful bass voice in G. If a comma occurs, he sings so, on the last word:—

an interrogation thus:—

a full stop:—

For example:—

I cannot describe to you how strange the falling cadence from A to C sounds; especially when the bass is followed by a soprano, who begins on D, and makes the same falling cadence from E to G; then an alto does the same in his key; for they sang three different lessons alternately with the canto fermo. I send you a specimen of the mode in which they render the canto fermo, regardless both of the words and the sense. The phrase "better he had never been born" was thus sung:—

quite fortissimo and monotonously. Then came the Psalms 74, 75, and 76, followed by three lessons, succeeded by the Miserere, sung in the same style as the preceding Psalms, in the following tonus:—

It will be long before you can improve on this. Then followed Psalms 8, 62, and 66; "Canticum Moysi" in its own tone. Psalms 148, 149, and 150 came next, and then antiphons. During this time the lights on the altar are all extinguished, save one which is placed behind the altar. Six wax candles still continue to burn high above the entrance, the rest of the space is already dim, and now the whole chorus unisono intone with the full strength of their voices the "Canticum Zachariæ," during which the last remaining lights are extinguished. The mighty swelling chorus in the gloom, and the solemn vibration of so many voices, have a wonderfully fine effect.

The melody (in D minor) is also very beautiful. At the close all is profound darkness. An antiphon begins on the sentence, "Now he that betrayed him gave them a sign," and continues to the words "that same is he, hold him fast." Then all present fall on their knees, and one solitary voice softly sings, "Christus factus est pro nobis obediens usque ad mortem;" on the second day is added, "mortem autem crucis;" and on Good Friday, "propter quod et Deus exaltavit illum, et dedit illi Nomen, quod est super omne nomen." A pause ensues, during which each person repeats the Paternoster to himself. During this silent prayer, a death-like silence prevails in the whole church; presently the Miserere commences, with a chord softly breathed by the voices, and gradually branching off into two choirs. This beginning, and its first harmonious vibration, certainly made the deepest impression on me. For an hour and a half previously, one voice alone had been heard chanting almost without any variety; after the pause came an admirably constructed chord, which has the finest possible effect, causing every one to feel in their hearts the power of music; it is this indeed that is so striking. The best voices are reserved for the Miserere, which is sung with the greatest variety of effect, the voices swelling and dying away, from the softest piano to the full strength of the choir. No wonder that it should excite deep emotion in every heart. Moreover they do not neglect the power of contrast; verse after verse being chanted by all the male voices in unison, forte, and harshly. At the beginning of the subsequent verses, the lovely, rich, soft sounds of voices steal on the ear, lasting only for a short space, and succeeded by a chorus of male voices. During the verses sung in monotone, every one knows how beautifully the softer choir are about to uplift their voices; soon they are again heard, again to die away too quickly, and before the thoughts can be collected, the service is over.

On the first day, when the Miserere of Baini was given in the key of B minor, they sang thus:—"Miserere mei Deus" to "misericordiam tuam" from the music, with solo voices, two choirs using the whole strength of voices at their command; then all the bass singers commenced tutti forte by F sharp, chanting on that note "et secundum multitudinem" to "iniquitatem meam," which is immediately succeeded by a soft chord in B minor, and so on, to the last verse of all, which they sing with their entire strength; a second short silent prayer ensues, when all the Cardinals scrape their feet noisily on the pavement, which betokens the close of the ceremony. My little book says, "This noise is symbolical of the tumult made by the Hebrews in seizing Christ." It may be so, but it sounded exactly like the commotion in the pit of a theatre, when the beginning of a play is delayed, or when it is finally condemned. The single taper still burning, is then brought from behind the altar, and all silently disperse by its solitary light.

On leaving the chapel, I must not omit to mention the striking effect of the blazing chandelier lighting up the great vestibule, when the Cardinals and their attendant priests traverse the illuminated Quirinal through ranks of Swiss Guards. The Miserere sung on the first day was Baini's, a composition entirely devoid of life or power, like all his works; still it had chords and music, and so it made a certain impression.

On the second day they gave some pieces by Allegri and Bai. On Good Friday all the music was Bai's. As Allegri composed only one verse, on which the rest are chanted, I heard the three compositions which they gave on that day. It is however quite immaterial which they sing, for the embellimenti are pretty much the same in all three. Each chord has its embellimento, thus very little of the original composition is to be discovered. How these embellimenti have crept in they will not say. It is maintained that they are traditional; but this I entirely disbelieve. In the first place no musical tradition is to be relied on; besides, how is it possible to carry down a five-part movement to the present time, from mere hearsay? It does not sound like it. It is evident that they have been more recently added; and it appears to me that the director, having had good high voices at his command, and wishing to employ them during the Holy Week, wrote down for their use ornamental phrases, founded on the simple unadorned chords, to enable them to give full scope and effect to their voices. They certainly are not of ancient date, but are composed with infinite talent and taste, and their effect is admirable; one in particular is often repeated, and makes so deep an impression, that when it begins, an evident excitement pervades all present; indeed, in any discussion as to the mode of executing this music, and when people say that the voices do not seem like the voices of men, but those of angels from on high, and that these sounds can never he heard elsewhere, it is this particular embellimento to which they invariably allude. For example, in the Miserere, whether that of Bai or Allegri (for they have recourse to the same embellimenti in both) these are the consecutive chords:—

Instead of this, they sing it so:—

The soprano intones the high C in a pure soft voice, allowing it to vibrate for a time, and slowly gliding down, while the alto holds the C steadily, so that at first I was under the delusion that the high C was still held by the soprano; the skill, too, with which the harmony is gradually developed is truly admirable. The other embellimenti are adapted in the same way to the consecutive chords: but the first one is by far the most beautiful. I can give no opinion as to the particular mode of executing the music; but what I once read, that some particular acoustic contrivance caused the continued vibration of the sounds, is an entire fable, quite as much so as the assertion that they sing from tradition, and without any fixed time, one voice simply following the other; for I saw plainly enough the shadow of Baini's long arm moving up and down; indeed, he sometimes struck his music-desk quite audibly. There is no lack of mystery too, on the part of the singers and others: for example, they never say beforehand what particular Miserere they intend to sing, but that it will be decided at the moment, etc., etc. The key in which they sing, depends on the purity of the voices. The first day it was in B minor, the second and third in E minor, but each time they finished almost in B flat minor.

The chief soprano, Mariano, came from the mountains to Rome expressly to sing on this occasion, and it is to him I owe hearing the embellimenti with their highest notes. However careful and attentive the singers may be, still the negligence and bad habits of the whole previous year have their revenge, consequently the most fearful dissonance sometimes occurs.

I must not forget to tell you that on the Thursday, when the Miserere was about to begin, I clambered up a ladder leaning against the wall, and was thus placed close to the roof of the chapel, so that I had the music, the priests, and the people far beneath me in gloom and shadow. Seated thus alone without the vicinity of any obtrusive stranger, the impression made on me was very profound. But to proceed: you must have had more than enough of Misereres in these pages, and I intend to bring you more particular details, both verbal and written.

On Thursday, at half-past ten o'clock, high Mass was celebrated. They sang an eight-part composition of Fazzini's, in no way remarkable. I reserve for you some canti fermi and antiphons, which I wrote down at the time, and my little book describes the order of the various services and the meaning of the different ceremonies. At the "Gloria in Excelsis" all the bells in Rome peal forth, and are not rung again till after Good Friday. The hours are marked in the churches by wooden clappers. The words of the "Gloria," the signal for all the strange tumult of bells, were chanted from the altar by old Cardinal Pacca, in a feeble trembling voice; this being succeeded by the choirs and all the bells, had a striking effect. After the "Credo" they sang the "Fratres ego enim" of Palestrina, but in the most unfinished and careless manner. The washing of the pilgrims' feet followed, and a procession in which all the singers join; Baini beating time from a large book carried before him, making signs first to one, and then to another, while the singers pressed forward to look at the music, counting the time as they walked, and then chiming in,—the Pope being borne aloft in his state chair. All this I have already described to my parents.

In the evening there were Psalms, Lamentations, Lessons, and the Miserere again, scarcely differing from those of the previous day. One lesson was chanted by a soprano solo on a peculiar melody, that I mean to bring home with me. It is an adagio, in long-drawn notes, and lasts a quarter of an hour at least. There is no pause in the music, and the melody lies very high, and yet it was executed with the most pure, clear, and even intonation. The singer did not drop his tone so much as a single comma, the very last notes swelling and dying away as even and full as at the beginning; it was, indeed, a masterly performance. I was struck with the meaning they attach to the word appoggiatura. If the melody goes from C to D, or from C to E, they sing thus:—

[[Listen]] [[Listen]] [[Listen]]

and this they call an appoggiatura. Whatever they may choose to designate it, the effect is most disagreeable, and it must require long habit not to be discomposed by this strange practice, which reminds me very much of our old women at home in church; moreover the effect is the same. I saw in my book that the "Tenebræ" was to be sung, and thinking that it would interest you to know how it is given in the Papal chapel, I was on the watch with a sharp-pointed pencil when it commenced, and send you herewith the principal parts. It was sung very quick, and forte throughout, without exception. The beginning was:—

Then

I cannot help it, but I own it does irritate me to hear such holy and touching words sung to such dull, drawling music. They say it is canto fermo, Gregorian, etc.; no matter. If at that period there was neither the feeling nor the capability to write in a different style, at all events we have now the power to do so, and certainly this mechanical monotony is not to be found in the scriptural words; they are all truth and freshness, and moreover expressed in the most simple and natural manner. Why then make them sound like a mere formula? and, in truth, such singing as this is nothing more! The word "Pater" with a little flourish, the "meum" with a little shake, the "ut quid me"—can this be called sacred music? There is certainly no false expression in it, because there is none of any kind; but does not this very fact prove the desecration of the words? A hundred times during the ceremony I was driven wild by such things as these; and then came people in a state of ecstasy, saying how splendid it had all been. This sounded to me like a bad joke, and yet they were quite in earnest!

At Mass early on Friday morning, the chapel is stripped of all its decorations, the altar uncovered, and the Pope and Cardinals in mourning. The "Passion," from St. John, was sung, composed by Vittoria, but the words of the people in the chorus alone are his, the rest are chanted according to an established formula: but more of this hereafter. The whole appeared to me too trivial and monotonous, I was quite out of humour, and, in fact, dissatisfied with the affair altogether. One of the two following modes ought to be adopted. The "Passion" ought either to be recited quietly by the priest, as St. John relates it, in which case there is no occasion for the chorus to sing "Crucifige eum," nor for the alto to represent Pilate—or else the scene should be so thoroughly realized, that it ought to make me feel as if I were actually present, and saw it all myself. In that event, Pilate ought to sing just as he would have spoken, the chorus shout out "Crucifige" in a tone anything but sacred; and then, through the impress of entire truth, and the dignity of the object represented, the singing would become sacred church music.

I require no under-current of thought when I hear music, which is not to me "a mere medium to elevate the mind to piety," as they say here, but a distinct language speaking plainly to me; for though the sense is expressed by the words, it is equally contained in the music. This is the case with the "Passion" of Sebastian Bach; but as they sing it here, it is very imperfect, being neither a simple narrative, nor yet a grand solemn dramatic truth. The chorus sings "Barabbam" to the same sacred chords as "et in terra pax." Pilate speaks exactly in the same manner as the Evangelist. The voice that represents our blessed Saviour commences always piano, in order to have one definite distinction, but when the chorus breaks loose, shouting out their sacred chords, it seems entirely devoid of meaning. Pray forgive these strictures. I now proceed to simple narration again. The Evangelist is a tenor, and the mode of chanting, the same as that of the Lessons, with a peculiar falling cadence at the comma, interrogation, and full stop. The Evangelist intones on D, and sings thus at a full stop:—

at a comma:—

and at the conclusion, when another personage enters, so:—

Christ is represented by a bass, and commences always thus:—

I could not catch the formula, though I noted down several parts, which I can show you when I return: among others, the words spoken on the Cross. All the other personages,—Pilate, Peter, the Maid, and the High Priest,—are altos, and sing this melody only:—

The chorus sings the words of the people from their places above, while everything else is sung from the altar. I must really mark down here as a curiosity the "Crucifige," just as I noted it at the time:—

The "Barabbam" too is most singular;—very tame Jews indeed! But my letter is already too long, so I shall discuss the subject no further. Prayers are then offered up for all nations and institutions, each separately designated. When the prayer for the Jews is uttered, no one kneels, as they do at all the others, nor is Amen said. They pray pro perfidis Judæis, and the author of my book discovers an explanation of this also. Then follows the Adoration of the Cross; a small crucifix is placed in the centre of the chapel, and all approach barefooted (without shoes), fall down before it and kiss it; during this time the "Improperia" are sung. I have only once heard this composition, but it seems to me to be one of Palestrina's finest works, and they sing it with remarkable enthusiasm. There is surprising delicacy and harmony in its execution by the choir; they are careful to place every passage in its proper light, and to render it sufficiently prominent without making it too conspicuous—one chord blending softly with the other. Moreover, the ceremony is very solemn and dignified, and the most profound silence reigns in the chapel.

They sing the oft-recurring Greek "Holy" in the most admirable manner, each time with the sane smoothness and expression. You will be not a little surprised, however, when you see it written down, for they sing as follows:—

Such passages as that at the commencement, where all the voices sing the very same embellishment, repeatedly occur, and the ear becomes accustomed to them. The effect of the whole is undoubtedly superb. I only wish you could hear the tenors in the first chorus, and the mode in which they take the high A on the word "Theos;" the note is so long-drawn and ringing, though softly breathed, that it sounds most touching. This is repeated again and again till all in the chapel have performed the Adoration of the Cross; but as on this occasion the crowd was not very great, I unluckily had not the opportunity of hearing it as often as I could have wished.

I quite understand why the "Improperias" produced the strongest effect on Goethe, for they are nearly the most faultless of all, as both music and ceremonies, and everything connected with them, are in the most entire harmony. A procession follows to fetch the Host, which had been exposed and adored on the previous evening in another chapel of the Quirinal, lighted up by many hundred wax-lights. The morning service closed at half-past one with a hymn in canto fermo. At half-past three in the afternoon the first nocturn began, with the Psalms, Lessons, etc. I corrected what I had written down, heard the Miserere of Baini, and about seven o'clock followed the Cardinals home through the illuminated vestibule—so all was now seen, and all was now over.

I was anxious, dear Professor, to describe the Holy Week to you minutely, as they were memorable days to me, every hour bringing with it something interesting and long anticipated. I also particularly rejoiced in feeling that, in spite of the excitement and the numerous discussions in praise or blame, the solemnities made as vivid an impression on me, as if I had been quite free from all previous prejudice or prepossession. I thus saw the truth confirmed, that perfection, even in a sphere the most foreign to us, leaves its own stamp on the mind. May you read this long letter with even half the pleasure I feel in recalling the period of the Holy Week at Rome.

Yours faithfully,
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy