Nickell’s Bag

Today, as part of a week-long look at Giuseppe Verdi’s “Messa da Requiem,” I thought I’d kick off with a full run-down of how the music came to be. If this reads like an essay you might find in the program of a concert, there’s a reason for that: I wrote this a few years ago as program notes for a performance by the Columbus Indiana Philharmonic.

This is a photo shot during the funeral procession for Giuseppe Verdi. When Verdi died in 1901, his funeral was an event of international importance — not just to the wealthy patrons and scholars of the music world, but to ordinary citizens across Italy and beyond. Hundreds of thousands of mourners lined the route of his funeral procession through Milan, many singing along to a rendition of “Va pensiero,” the chorus of Hebrew slaves from his opera, “Nabucco.” To those who attended the event, Verdi represented not just a musical hero, but a symbol of the Italian nation.

But just as Verdi had come to represent all that was great in Italian musical art, he himself inherited that mantle from his predecessor, Gioacchino Rossini (composer of such operas as “The Barber of Seville”). By the time Rossini died in 1868, Verdi was already an important musical voice in Italy, having already composed two of the three operas for which he is best remembered: “La Traviata” and “Rigoletto” (the third, “Aida,” came soon thereafter).

But even with his own fame growing, Verdi recognized the importance of the passing of the elder statesman of Italian music, and resolved to memorialize the composer in grand fashion. He conceived a plan to produce a Requiem in Rossini’s honor, with each movement written by a different Italian composer; Verdi himself would produce the “Libera Me” movement. The piece was to be performed only once, with neither composers nor performers paid for their services. Plans for this event received widespread publicity from the outset, and the anticipation rose as all twelve composers produced their portions of the music.

However, the performance plans soon fell in shambles, and the event disintegrated into a major public embarrassment to Verdi in particular. Verdi’s music was eventually returned to him some five years later, in 1873.

Around that same time, the Italian novelist Alessandro Manzoni died. Verdi had revered Manzoni even more highly than Rossini, and the death of the author precipitated a new plan from Verdi — although this time, he knew better than to make any public fanfare, or to rely on the generosity of others, to see his plan through. On the day following Manzoni’s death, Verdi wrote a rather non-committal message to his music publisher:

“I am profoundly saddened by the death of our Great Man!…I will come soon to visit his grave, alone and unseen, and perhaps (after further reflection, having weighed my own strength) to propose something to honor his memory.”

It didn’t take Verdi long to firm his resolve, for on June 3 he again wrote to his publisher, saying that he hoped to compose a Requiem in Manzoni’s honor, to be performed on the first anniversary of the author’s death. The publisher secured a commitment from the mayor of Milan to provide — and pay for — the services of the performers; Verdi himself would conduct the premiere. This time, the event went off without a hitch, and proved to be one of Verdi’s greatest successes.

That this Requiem had its foundations in a public memorial event, rather than as a religious mass, holds significance — or, at least, explains a good bit about the style of the work that resulted. For instead of the reverent, ecclesiastical form that most previous Requiem Masses had taken, Verdi’s product was highly operatic, to the extent that the vocal soloists even seem to take on character roles in the music. Indeed, one section, the “Lacrymosa,” is largely lifted from a discarded duet from Verdi’s opera, “Don Carlo.”

Perhaps not surprisingly, critical reaction to the work was mixed. Many critics (in particular, the influential German conductor Hans von Bülow) condemned the work as irreverent. Bülow went so far as to make several scathing public pronouncements before having even heard the work:

“With this work the all-powerful despoiler of Italian artistic taste — and ruler of the taste he has despoiled — presumably hopes to eliminate the last remains, irksome to his own ambition, of Rossini’s immortality … Surreptitious glances at this newest manifestation of the composer of “Trovatore” and “Traviata” have not exactly whetted our appetite for this so-called “Festival.”"

But despite such naysaying, Verdi’s Requiem quickly gained international acclaim, with Verdi himself conducting the work around Europe. And in hindsight, it is easy to understand the work’s popularity.

It is abundantly clear that Verdi took from the sacred text similar cues to those he took from operatic libretti. While this may not reflect a pious mindset, it certainly provides the work with a breath of life that far too many religious compositions over the ages have lacked. In Verdi’s hands, the “Dies irae” (Day of Wrath) becomes not merely a lament, but a horrifying portrait of the Last Judgment, complete with all the thunder, trumpet-calls, and fervor that might attend such an historical moment. The “Libera me” (Deliver Me, O Lord) section, with its soprano solo set against the chorus and orchestra, seems to tell a story, in which the soprano seeks peace and solace in a world of confusion, sadness and chaos. Throughout the text (as in his operas), Verdi found inspiration in what he referred to often as the parola scenica — individual words or phrases that sparked his creative imagination and became the pivotal points of his musical expression; there is not a slack or uninspired moment in the whole, grand-scale work.

Check out this section, from the “Lacrimosa,” in which the four voice soloists trade lines in a glorious musical dialogue:

More than a hundred years after Verdi’s own passing, we can see this work out of its own historical context and appreciate it for what it is: one of the most profound and passionate expressions of grief, longing and redemption in the repertoire.

Share on Facebook