Petite messe solennelle by Rossini
In a new series, our arts critics choose comforting works for our tough times
What makes a piece of music consoling? Not just sweetly tender melodies and soft harmonies. Music which is genuinely consoling has something extra. It catches at the heart because it shows an awareness of the darker side of life, and yet, at the same moment, turns that awareness to comfort. It says to us: don’t be afraid. All will be well.
Rossini’s Petite messe solennelle for me has this quality in abundance. He wrote it late in life in 1864, when he was turning back to the religious forms he’d composed in his youth. The Mass was probably written for Count Alexis Pillet-will as a gift to his wife, as it was performed at a grand salon at his house in Paris, with an audience packed with composers, critics and ambassadors. Halfway through a buffet was served, and one critic said, “That was a buffet which deserves a eulogy even in the middle of such marvels, a buffet worthy of Rossini.”
That’s so right for Rossini, who loved food at least as much as music, and is one of only a handful of composers who’s ever had a dish named after him (Tournedos Rossini). He was a tolerant soul who understood the weaknesses of the flesh, and hoped the Almighty would forgive him for them. On the manuscript of this Mass he wrote Him an ironic, punning note: “Dear God. Here it is, finished, this poor little Mass. Have I written a sacred piece (musique sacrée) or a hell of a piece (sacrée musique)? I was born for opera buffa, you know it well! A bit of technique, some heart – that’s all. Be blessed, then, and grant me a place in Paradise.”
I imagine Rossini has earned his place there. The Mass is full of heartstopping moments when sternness turns suddenly to sweetness, an effect much more evident in the piano-and-harmonium sound of the original chamber version than the routine orchestration Rossini made later. You hear it immediately in the opening Kyrie, but perhaps even more moving is the Qui Tollis. The music is so delicately pleading in its sternness that it consoles, by some miracle. My favourite movement is the Crucifixus, where the two pianos provide a delicious harmonic cushion for the bosomy sound of the contralto. As the harmonium steals in, an iron fatefulness enters the music, but then comes the soaring phrase on sub Pontio Pilato. The luxuriantly slow recording by Isabel Garcisanz (youtube.com/ watch?v=qlddzmnfxkk) catches perfectly the way sternness melts away, and we feel a mysterious comfort.