Choral masterpiece. On the one hundredth anniversary of Dvorák's death, Tess Crebbin writes about one of the most personal settings ever of the Stabat Mater

<< -- 5 -- Tess Crebbin CHORAL MASTERPIECE

Let us just look at the emotions that proceed from the opening scene: after the chromatic descent climaxing in a diminished chord, everything is repeated but this time with the chorus coming in. It is all about desolation, loss of hope and an overwhelming grief where there seems to be no hope, ever again, at the end of the tunnel. Then the soloists join in, continuing the prevailing mood but suddenly there are flashes, dim flashes, of hope in the form of big major harmonies.

It is a hope that cannot last, a mere glimpse, for now the chorus and orchestra come back again, bang, with hope completely gone as they bring back the main theme that climaxes not once, but twice, on a diminished chord. Clearly symphonic in nature, there is nothing but a black shroud of grief that seems to cover the entire piece. But the end brings surprise when, in the final movement, singing the haunting when my body dies, grant that my soul be given to paradise the soloist is suddenly joined by the orchestra and chorus who pick up on the thread of hope and run with that hope all the way to a glorious finish. We already know that the grief of such a magnificent loss is overwhelming and expect no hope to last, but it does. We expect everything to end, as it did before, on a dissonant diminished chord and instead we are suddenly confronted with a fortissimo major chord that sets the mood for the remainder of the final movement.

Where there was no hope even for hope, not even a glimpse of it, we are suddenly hit over the head with it and this time it is a hope that is there to stay until the end. The Amen begins fugue-like as a magnificent moment of drama where we seem, once more, to draw to a close but then Dvorák hits on us with one of the most unexpected climaxes ever written in the history of music, as unexpected as was his own recovery from his devastating loss.

After the ensemble has drawn toward the supposed end, the soloists and orchestra disappear completely and we are left with the chorus that continues. It sings an a capella hymn that eventually fades away to a series of ever softer Amens. It is a chilling ending to one of the greatest oratorios ever written when the horns interrupt these increasingly fading Amens with one last statement of the Stabat Mater from the opening theme, but this time in major mode -- the triumph of faith and belief over despair.

Nobody who has ever heard this can escape the chilling feeling that this might be somebody taking his final breath after a long struggle during which he moved from anguish to faith and during which faith, in the final moments of life, has banished anguish and paradise draws near. We have just witnessed a most passionate statement of grief, but also of overcoming grief, that music can possibly give us.

After the work's December 1880 première, the response in England was so great that Dvorák was invited to conduct it there and thus started his rise to fame in the anglophone world. The Stabat Mater has been put to music by many composers over the years, but this particular one is dripping with Dvorák's religious faith and some of it cannot help but rub off on the listener. A truly unique Stabat Mater, with its original musical phrases and filled with the romantic settings of its time and inspired by family loss of exceptionally large proportions, it still comes across as one of the most personal settings ever and provides an inspiring though at times painful personal statement of faith and hope.

Some Dvorák facts at a glance:

The composer's name is pronounced Dworjacques.

He came from an environment of farmers and minor tradesmen who lived in cottages around the Nelahozeves region, Bohemia, and his growing up years were marred by poverty and hardship.

His father was an innkeeper and butcher and Dvorák was set to follow the family trade. He became a butcher's apprentice for a while but animal-loving Dvorák hated the slaughter and blood and gave it up.

He first studied music with the local village schoolmaster, and then went to the famous organ school in Prague.

To make a living, he was forced to lay his composition aspirations aside initially and play in a provisional theatre orchestra that later drew the attention of Richard Wagner when Wagner came to the region.

Dvorák was very Catholic and he worked as a church organist in his early years.

He eventually was awarded the prestigious and highly competitive state scholarship for young composers, which gave him a small sustenance for five years so that he could set time aside for his musical creations.

Brahms, who was on the awarding committee for the scholarship, usually hated pretty much everyone, especially young composers, but he took a liking to Dvorák and decided to help him. He made sure that Dvorák's music was published.

In 1892, Dvorák was invited to New York City to teach composition at the National Conservatory there. The Americans still love him and there is a Dvorák American Heritage Association because they feel very patriotic toward him.

The Brits loved him, too, and he was awarded an honorary doctorate from the University of Cambridge in 1891.

Despite his success in the United States, Dvorák was so homesick that he returned to Prague after a few years on the other side of the pond. There, he lived much poorer but he did not mind: he was home. He never denied his Czech roots even at a time when it would have been highly advantageous to do so.

While he was in the United States, he had lots of birds in his house there and he left their cage doors open so that they could fly freely about. Visitors were often greeted by bird wings whooshing past their faces.

Dvorák had to convince his family to let him study music. He initially studied organ because his very down-to-earth father deemed that this, at least, was a good trade since there would always be churches requiring an organist.

Dvorák was saved from ending as a church musician by his abilities as a viola player. This ended up getting him into the provisional theatre orchestra that later led to the foundation of the new Czech theatre orchestra and this was how he met Wagner when the German composer used that orchestra for a performance of his own works.

By 1864, Dvorák had two symphonies already written - he was twenty four years of age then.

Hans Richter, the conductor, was also a champion of Dvorák.

Dvorák's brilliant Stabat Mater resulted from the tragic loss of all three of his children. The Dvoráks later had more children but the first one to reach adulthood was Ottilie, born in 1878.

Because it was not chic to be Czech, Dvorák was urged to move to Vienna and become a Viennese composer. He was also urged to give his music German titles but he resisted both calls.

It seems that everyone liked Dvorák. Tschaikowsky, too, had taken a liking to the young man on his visit to Prague in 1888. They stayed in touch and around 1890 Tschaikowsky brought Dvorák to Russia for a visit.

During his time in New York, Dvorák became close to Anton Seidl, the musical director of the Met. This relationship rekindled Dvorak's early love for Wagner because Seidl had once been Wagner's assistant.

Dvorák was pretty healthy until 1904, when he suddenly started feeling a pain in his side. It became so bad that he spent all of April of that year in bed but on the first of May, when he felt better and finally got out of bed, he died after having eaten a bowl of soup.

Dvorák sought his inspiration in nature and, like many great composers, he composed 'from nature'. Upon a visit to the Niagara Falls, he stood there watching for a while and then exclaimed that this would make a great symphony in B Minor.

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