Gloria in D

Evidence of Antonio Vivaldi’s composition of sacred music was entirely circumstantial until the fortunate discovery in the late 1920s of manuscripts bequeathed to the Italian national library in Turin. We knew Vivaldi held the post as resident composer at the Pietà—an orphanage overseen by religious and republican administrators—and we could read in the Mercure de France of 1727 about a Te Deum by Vivaldi that was sung in Venice that year. But not until 200 years later did any of his sacred music emerge “in the flesh,” as it were, to a curious and expectant modern audience. The moment finally came in September 1939 in Siena, Italy, when the first modern performance of his breathtaking Gloria in D RV 589 took place. Just days previously Europe had exploded into war following Hitler’s aggressions and the initial bombing of Poland. A better time for a cultural salve could hardly be imagined.
Until then the world knew “The Red Priest” as a composer of instrumental music, concertos mostly, and we now realize how deeply the concerto style permeated even his sacred composition. We also know that J. S. Bach greatly admired Vivaldi’s music; the German master transcribed several concertos for solo keyboard and wrote his own concertos in the freshest Italian manner. Some have even suggested that Vivaldi’s Gloria in D was a model for Bach when he composed the Gloria of his own Mass in B Minor. Similarities are there, for sure. But Vivaldi’s music rarely circulated outside the walls of the Pietà, and there seems almost no likelihood that Bach ever saw or heard the Gloria in D. Indeed, until its modern rediscovery, it is hard to say how many people ever heard this masterpiece apart from its first performance.
We suspect Vivaldi composed the Gloria in Venice around 1715; it may have been performed as part of a special Mass service (perhaps at Christmas), and may have accompanied Vivaldi to Rome on one of his several trips to the carnival festivities. We know that he composed three different “Gloria” settings, of which only two survive—RV 588 and 589. They were written almost simultaneously and share many features of scoring and harmonic style. (The earlier work, RV 588, deserves greater exposure in today’s classical scene.)
The Gloria in D, RV 589, contains twelve movements of varying length and musical character. It begins with the palpable jubilation typical of a Vivaldian concerto but heightened, of course, by the presence of the four-voice chorus and sacred text. Familiar features of his opening materials are the idiosyncratic harmonic sequences, brilliant understanding of string writing, and use of subtle rhythmic contrast to generate forward momentum. Indeed, apart from one brief interruption just before the final phrase, the entire movement unfolds in continuous motion.
The second movement, in B minor, occupies a far more intimate expressive realm; it is both poignant and learned, mixing painful dissonances (such as the flat-2 scale step) associated with the Phrygian mode with close imitation, minimal string accompaniment, and carefully paced overlap in the voices. Tonality carries the emotional burden, yet the music is never burdensome, never redundant. Like a meditation, it is both beautiful and sad at the same time.
Chromatic touches continue in the third movement, but this duet for two sopranos projects a sunny disposition throughout. The very brief fourth movement is one of two choral recitatives (see also no. 9) in the Gloria: strictly homophonic sections with striking chord changes and an incomplete, introductory feel. It prepares movement 5, a flawless four-voice fugue for chorus and strings. The elaborate fugue subject betrays the “violinist” mindset ever-present in Vivaldi’s compositional approach. Still, the closing measures of antique style long-note progressions remind us how he could transcend himself to tap deeper and older musical resources when necessary.
The sixth movement offers a charming solo for soprano and oboe. Written as a siciliano, it is both gentle and plaintive, clearly taking on the nature of a concerto slow movement in both tempo and affect. The two solo lines are simple, fluid, and kept distinct apart from effective dovetailing at phrase joints. How well it contrasts with the fitful seventh movement, where an incessant dotted rhythm sounds buoyant and lively in major keys but obsessive, even ominous in minor.
The eighth movement pulls back inward. Following an instrumental introduction, Vivaldi brings in the alto soloist unaccompanied with a stepwise, descending line that does nothing more than outline the key (D minor) and nothing less than cut its way into our heart. He makes brilliant use of the full ensemble to punctuate the soloist’s text, having the full chorus intone periodically with “qui tollis peccata [mundi].” As if operating on two separate planes, the solo melody tries to continue on only to be interrupted again and again by the chorus’ hypnotic refrain. Later, when the roles have reversed, the soloist obsesses on its single thought “miserere nobis” while the chorus pushes the text along.
The ninth movement, as mentioned earlier, offers choral recitative as introduction to the following alto solo movement (no. 10). Movement 11 is a very short reprise of the opening material, and leads directly to the magisterial closing fugue—as good as any in Bach. Vivaldi consistently uses his two countersubjects to alleviate the weighty feel of his main subject. He also nicely intersperses passages for the strings alone, thereby allowing the voices to reenter at later points of the theme sounding fresh and distinctive. From start to finish, Vivaldi’s Gloria maintains its spontaneity and energy, though it never sounds hurried or immature. We are extremely fortunate that this score, lost for so many generations of great musicians and music lovers who never could have heard it—Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, Verdi, Bruckner, Debussy, Mahler, Puccini…—that this score should exist for us today is truly a blessing.

(c) Jason Stell