Taoism and Buddhism in T’ang China
Taoism and Buddhism both had a profound influence on all aspects of Chinese life during the T’ang period (617-907). Both religions captured the imagination of all levels of society; they were seen as a way out of suffering, a liberation from the trials of everyday life. Moreover, they influenced the art, literature, and science of their times. Their corresponding philosophies were embraced by the elite as guides on the search for ultimate truth. It was during this period that Buddhism, a foreign religion, gained a distinctly Chinese flavour, as can be evidenced by the foundation of religious schools such as Ch’an and philosophical schools such as Hua-yen. This essay will examine Buddhism and Taoism during the T’ang period, particularly under the reigns of Kao-tsung and Empress Wu, who both saw religion as propaganda, and as a way to maintain stability throughout the empire.
Taoism had its philosophy deeply rooted in the social consciousness by the time of the T’ang dynasty. Central to its teachings was the Tao, the transcendent “Way” of the universe – the ultimate, undefinable reality, inherent in everything from the stars to human beings; it was eternal, ineffable, spontaneous, and yet it dynamically encompassed all matter. Through wu-wei, meaning “non-action”, or “creative quietude”[1], people could “flow with the current of the Tao”[2] and be at one with the cosmos. Fundamental to the philosophy of the Tao is the classical Chinese concept of yin-yang – the harmony of opposites. Taoism prefers intuitive wisdom to rational knowledge; it emphasises spontaneity and naturalness. Taoism, like Buddhism, can be seen as a way of liberation from the material world.
From its institutionalisation into a religion during the second century, the ancient philosophy of Taoism gained a new layer of meaning; out of its original simplicity grew an intricate mythology. Lao Tzu, the semi-legendary author of its central doctrine, the Tao Te Ching, was deified and made a member of a holy trinity that included the Heavenly King of the Primal Beginning and the Jade Emperor. The Taoism that now issued forth was a Taoism for the masses, a Taoism strongly influenced by the colourful Mahayana Buddhism that had come into China from India. Complex rituals were performed in monasteries, and “the Taoist priesthood made cosmic life power available for ordinary villagers.”[3] Taoism, in this way, extended itself to become an organised religion influential in the lives of the common people.
There was a strong connection between the imperial family and the Taoist church during the T’ang dynasty. Taoism served to unite the increasingly far-reaching Chinese empire, spanning across different ethnic groups and maintaining universal peace and stability. T’ang Kao-tsu, the founder of the dynasty, sought to legitimise his rather precarious position on the throne by identifying Lao Tzu, who shared his surname of Li, as the royal ancestor. Taoism was named the first religion in the state, even above Confucianism, which had so long formed the core of Chinese society. Buddhism, an exotic religion, was ranked last. The Tao Te Ching was propagated throughout the empire, and each T’ang ruler sought to out-do the last in lavishing grand posthumous titles on its author.
Taoism’s contributions to science, literature and the visual arts were remarkable. The Taoists’ pursuit of health and the prolongation of natural life placed the Taoists at the fore of the medicine of their day. They also created meticulously-illustrated catalogues for the identification of sacred minerals, plants, and fungi. In the world of words, the poetic imagery of Taoist literature was much admired and copied by secular writers; both the Tao Te Ching and Chuang Tzu spawned many replicates. Li Po, arguably the greatest of all Chinese poets, was an adherent of Taoism; its philosophy had a profound influence on his writings. His works are renowned for their great eloquence and beauty, for their depiction of wild nature, and their deep naturalness and spontaneity. Taoism also maintained a strong influence on the visual arts; Taoist artists were skilled calligraphers, figure painters, and talisman makers. The emperor T’ai-tsung was a zealous collector of the calligraphy of the Ch’in Taoist master, Wang Hsi-chih, who was considered to be among the greatest of all calligraphers. The Taoist philosophy also stimulated Chinese landscape painting.
The reign of Kao-tsung (649-83) ushered an era of strong Taoist fervour. Though some scholars interpret the Emperor’s patronage of Taoism as a result of his clutch on power growing increasingly weak under the dominion of his consort, Empress Wu, it is also possible to see it as astute political propaganda.[4] A chain of Taoist monasteries spanning the empire was founded in circa 666; in 672, the T’ai-p’ing princess was ordained in a Taoist nunnery. In the next two centuries, twelve other princesses would follow her example. By 678 the Tao Te Ching had been placed in the imperial examination system; this was one of the many examples demonstrating the great importance allotted to Taoism. The religion continued to flourish as its bonds with the royal family and the state grew stronger than ever. It was a golden age for Taoism.
During Kao-Tsung’s later years, he suffered from a series of paralytic strokes; though ostensibly he was still emperor, his power was actually in the hands of his consort, Wu Chao. The latter had spent some time as a nun in the Buddhist order, and from the beginning it was evident where her sympathies lay. Already in the years of 672-675 the empress ordered the carving out of the colossal statue of Buddha surrounded by bodhisattvas in the Lung-men caves.
When Kao-tsung finally died in 683, Empress Wu, after deposing the rightful emperor, her son Chung-tsung, replaced him with his brother, Jui-tsung, who served purely as a nominal ruler while she took the empire into her own hands. Whereas Confucianism was solidly against the possibility of a woman ruling in her own right, and Taoism could similarly offer her no support[5], Buddhism provided her with exactly what she wanted: legitimisation of her power. A group of Buddhist followers presented her with the Ta-yün-ching (The Great Cloud Sutra), which outlined the prophecy that a female ruler would arise in south India 700 years after the Buddha’s death. They wrote commentaries on the sutra that drew an analogy between the empress’ life and that of the Indian princess. Armed with this, Empress Wu further claimed to be an earthly incarnation of Maitreya, the Future Buddha.
In the ninth month of 690, she officially proclaimed herself the empress of a new dynasty, designated the “Chou”. She set up a network of Ta-yün Temples throughout the empire; these, along with the distribution of the Ta-yün-ching and her claim to be Maitreya, she used to obtain a popular following from the people. Under her patronage, Buddhism blossomed; in 691 she decreed that Buddhism should be ranked as the first religion in the empire, reversing the policies of the earlier T’ang rulers.[6] The sculptural activities at the Lung-men caves flourished and Buddhist temples rivalled even the imperial palaces in magnificence of architecture; numerous translations of Buddhist texts were sponsored by the state, with the Empress Wu personally partaking in the effort.[7]
Enthusiastic imperial support was given to two new schools of Buddhism, Ch’an and Hua-yen. Empress Wu’s respect for Ch’an Buddhism is evidenced by her invitation of Shen-hsiu, the elderly founder of the Northern Ch’an school, to the imperial court; indeed, when he came, she showed her deference by kneeling down before him. Shen-hsiu, at the time already over ninety years of age and venerated for his meditational techniques, became exceedingly popular, with both the common people and high-ranking officials among his followers. He was named the Master of the Dharma in the Two Capitals and the Teacher of Three Emperors. When he died in 706, he was mourned by hundreds of thousands of people and given the posthumous title of Ta-t’ung Ch’an-shih (The Ch’an Master Ta-t’ung).
Ch’an (literally, “meditation”) can be seen as a manifestation of the practical side of Chinese character. Ch’an Buddhists practised awareness constantly, even during the execution of mundane tasks, such as washing the dishes and chopping wood. Ch’an was concerned with living entirely in the present moment. Like Taoism, Ch’an was deeply mistrustful of words and stressed the ineffability of reality. Reason was similarly condemned; logical thinking was seen as a barrier to enlightenment, the perception of ultimate truth and reality. Ch’an was popular among the common people as it was pragmatic and applicable to their everyday lives.
The main typically Chinese philosophical school of Buddhism during the T’ang period was the Hua-yen, which claimed the Avatamsaka Sutra (Hua-yen ching) as the zenith of the Buddha’s teachings. The identifying theme of this sutra is its doctrine on the interrelatedness of all things. This interrelatedness is portrayed by the imagery of an interconnected web of pearls, each reflecting all the others, and of a tower that contains thousands of other towers, each with a separate existence of its own, each in harmony with all the others, each containing the others. This interconnectedness of all things can indeed be seen as the pinnacle of Buddhist philosophy.
Popular Buddhism, meanwhile, blossomed. Buddhist temples and monasteries served as the venues of various grandiose festivals in which all classes of society participated with equal enthusiasm. The close connection between the Buddhist community and the imperial family was demonstrated by festivals celebrating the emperor’s birthday and commemorating past emperors and empresses. Other festivals of a more religious nature were the Lantern Festival; the Festival of the Buddha’s Birthday; the Festival Honouring the Relics of the Buddha; the All Souls’ Feast, or Ullambana. The lavishness and convivial spirit of these festivals exemplified Buddhism as a religion equally attractive to the masses as to the elite and the imperial family.
Buddhism had an enormous influence on many faces of the prism of Chinese society. The colourful writings of the Buddhists inspired Chinese authors to unleash their imaginations into a new world of fantasy, as can be seen from the Ming dynasty novel Hsi-yu-chi (Record of a Trip to the West), a fictitious account of the monk Hsüan-Tsang’s journey to India, in which he is accompanied by a monkey spirit, a pig spirit, and a water spirit. The Buddhist stories told to the general populace by monks by means of proselytization also made a contribution to the development of the novel in China. In language itself, the new words invented by Chinese Buddhists that were either translations or transliterations of Buddhist ideas found a permanent place in the Chinese vocabulary. The Buddhist influence on art was also profound. Ch’an landscape painters sought to portray the essence of their subjects, rather than their exterior forms. Great spontaneity and suddenness of brushstrokes and meditational attitudes were trademarks of the Ch’an masters, who often depicted the birds, flowers, rivers, and mountains that were their artistic insights into reality. Buddhist architecture featured monumental wooden temples and tall, many-storied pagodas usually constructed from bricks. Buddhist monks made great contributions to science, especially in the fields of astronomy, medicine, and mathematics.
In conclusion, both Taoism and Buddhism played an integral part in T’ang China, transforming the lives of a whole spectrum of people. Throughout the dynasty, the ruling house saw religion as a means to tie the nation together, to unify the people, and to solidify and conserve their power. Kao-tsung and his consort, Empress Wu, both utilized religion by way of propaganda, causing Taoism and Buddhism respectively to thrive. Both religions had a gargantuan influence on culture and made pioneering improvements in the science of their times. The philosophical schools of Taoism and Buddhism, although more recondite, also prospered; they provided answers to the metaphysical questions of those who sought ultimate truth, and continue to provide us with those answers today. Taoism and Buddhism are two jewels of Chinese history; though different – one jade and the other lapis lazuli – both can ultimately be seen as responses to the same need that is inherent in us all, the need for a higher, celestial truth.
[1] H. Smith, The World’s Religions, San Francisco, 1991, p. 207.
[2] Huai Nan Tzu, quoted in J. Needham, Science and Civilisation in China, London, 1956, vol. 2, p. 88.
[3] D. Overmyer, Religions of China, New York, 1986, p. 39.
[4] S. Weinstein, Buddhism under the T’ang, Cambridge, 1987, p. 29.
[5] T. H. Barrett, Taoism under the T’ang, London, 1996, p. 40.
[6] S. Weinstein, Buddhism under the T’ang, Cambridge, 1987, p. 43.
[7] Ibid., p. 44.
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Tsu, L., tr. Feng, Gia-Fu and English, J., Tao Te Ching, New York, Vintage Books, 1972.
Secondary Sources
Ed. Abbate, F., tr. Phillips, P. L., Chinese Art, London, Octopus Books, 1972.
Barrett, T. H., Taoism under the T’ang, London, Wellsweep Press, 1996.
Ch’en, K. S., Buddhism in China: A Historical Survey, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1974.
Needham, J., Science and Civilisation in China, 7 vols., London, Cambridge University Press, 1954-76.
Overmyer, D., Religions of China, New York, Harper & Row, 1986.
Shih, H., “Ch’an (Zen) Buddhism in China: Its History and Method”, Philosophy East and West, April 1953, Vol. 3 No. 1, pp. 3-24.
Smith, H., The World’s Religions, San Francisco, HarperCollins, 1991.
Weinstein, S. Buddhism under the T’ang, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1987.
Dmitri Shostakovich: denouncement and rehabilitation
The life and works of Dmitri Shostakovich are inextricably linked to the politics of the Russian Communist regime. Although he was recognised as “perhaps Soviet Russia’s most loyal musical son, and certainly her most talented one”,[1] he found his creative freedom restricted by the Party. The first and most infamous example of such political mistreatment was the opera Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District, which after two years of success was denounced and banned. Shostakovich had become the “sacrificial lamb”[2] through which the Party displayed its power over the arts: his fate served as a warning to those who strayed from the dictated aesthetic path of “socialist realism”. His official rehabilitation came with the polysemous Fifth Symphony, which reaped “an orgy of public praise” and later “Stalin prizes and titles and honorary posts”[3] – for the Party had to show it could deck with roses as easily as it could revile and humiliate.[4]
That Shostakovich was Russia’s most talented offspring there can be no doubt. His First Symphony, composed when he was still a teenager, skyrocketed him into international fame. His formative years corresponded to the era of artistic liberalism ushered by Lenin’s New Economic Policy (NEP) of 1921. It was widely accepted that a revolutionary society had to have revolutionary art; the period was marked by the enthusiastic espousal of modernism and an exchange of ideas with the progressive West. Leningrad and Moscow became dynamic centres of cultural life where works by Schreker, Křenek, Berg, Hindemith, and the expatriate Stravinsky were performed.[5] Many Soviet composers devoted themselves to the creation of modernistic music. Socialist ideology “emphatically” rejected “the separation of Art from Life”; accordingly, their music often portrayed the shifting and grinding of factories and the bustling sounds of the city.[6] The organisation behind the Western-inspired musical avant-garde was the Association for Contemporary Music, the ACM, which propelled Russian music into an age of modernism. But a rival group, the Russian Association of Proletarian Musicians (RAPM), called for a simplified musical language that could be comprehended by the masses. From the outset, the RAPM’s attitude was vehemently anti-modernistic.
As soon as Shostakovich graduated from the Leningrad Conservatory in 1925 he embraced the cause of modernism. Perhaps most striking of the radical pieces he produced during this period are his Aphorisms for piano (influenced by Prokofiev’s Sarcasms) and his Gogolian opera The Nose. The latter work discarded convention to such an extent that it became a sort of anti-opera; in it we can find the naturalistic portrayal of snoring and other nasal sounds and a full exploitation of the satire of the story it is based on.[7] Shostakovich also undertook a commission to create the Symphonic Dedication to October (later to become his Second Symphony) for the tenth anniversary of the October Revolution in 1927.[8] That the work is characterised by clamorous dissonances and includes a factory hooter in its instrumentation suggests close affinity to the ACM; its choral ending, on the other hand, is undeniably propagandist, leading to approval by the RAPM.[9] The fact that many of Shostakovich’s works are on similarly revolutionary topics supports the hypothesis that he was “perhaps the most loyal” of Soviet Russia’s composers. His many film scores were often so propagandist that “Stalin himself attached great value to Shostakovich the film composer.”[10] His patriotic songs, ballets, and theatre pieces were written in the same vein of radical socialist ideals. Nevertheless, it is unclear whether Shostakovich truly believed in the ideology he supported; many have argued that he was actually a clandestine dissident.
In 1929, Stalin’s first Five-Year Plan brutally put an end to the artistic euphoria of the NEP. Russia underwent a Second Revolution, in which any potential opponents of Stalin were mercilessly liquidated. Land collectivisation and industrialisation put immense pressure on the country and caused a rapid decline in living standards.[11] In the arts, modernism was forcefully suppressed by the Party and became known under the black label of “formalism”, a slippery term that was plastic enough to mean anything the regime wanted it to.[12] Formalism, officially defined as the “separation of form from content”,[13] was seen as an esoteric expression of bourgeois-inspired corruption that had no place in the proletarian Soviet Russia. Accused of formalism, modernists such as Roslavets, Mosolov, and Lourié were ushered out of Russian musical life and had their names literally expunged from the history books.[14] The Party further dissolved the ACM and put the RAPM in domination over the Soviet musical world: after three years in power, the latter was replaced by the party-run Union of Soviet Composers in the perestroyka[15] of 1932.[16] Although most composers were relieved to be free of the hegemony of the RAPM, the Union soon showed itself to be even more intimidating: it was the instrument of political control over Russian musical life.
“Socialist realism”, introduced in 1934 at the First Congress of Soviet Writers, became the goal towards which all Soviet artists were to strive.[17] Officially defined as “the truthful and historically concrete representation of reality in its revolutionary development”, it meant almost exactly the opposite.[18] The irony was biting: socialist realism was supposed to present an undyingly optimistic vision of Soviet life, “the harsh every-day reality…seen through rose-coloured glasses.”[19] Everything was portrayed as evolving towards the revolutionary ideal, a cheerfully uniform society.[20] It was clear from the outset that all new socialist art would have to be positive, comprehensible to the masses, and suffused by a kind of heroism. Soviet music cemented into a style of vulgar cliches that effectively hedged it off from the outside world: “there was a curious sense of disillusionment at the discovery that Revolutionary Russia could produce such far from revolutionary music.”[21]
In fact, “so little was socialist realism understood” at the beginning that Shostakovich’s second opera, Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District, “was accepted as the embodiment of it.”[22] When it was premiered in January 1934 it was a phenomenal success. The first Soviet opera to enter the repertoire, its fame soon spread abroad. It was soon being performed in Sweden, Czechoslovakia, England, Yugoslavia, Switzerland, Denmark, and America. At home, both the critics and the general public were ecstatic: Lady Macbeth was hailed as a work that “could have been written only by a Soviet composer brought up in the best traditions of Soviet culture.”[23] While the music met with disapproval from the conservative faction of the Union of Soviet Composers, they could do nothing to blight Shostakovich’s triumph.[24] At 27, he was the most famous composer in the Soviet Union. In the euphoria of success Shostakovich, who had initially planned a trilogy of operas on the theme of strong Russian heroines, announced that he would complete a tetralogy, à la Wagner’s Ring Cycle. Lady Macbeth was to be the Rheingold.[25]
Lady Macbeth was based on a story of the same name by the 19th-century writer Nikolai Leskov, which, according to Shostakovich, “expressively characterises the position of women in the old prerevolutionary time”.[26] Nevertheless, some significant alterations were made to the plot by the composer and his co-librettist Alexander Preis. Shostakovich sought to whiten the character of Katerina, the “Lady Macbeth” of the title; the murderess was interpreted as “a vigorous, talented, beautiful woman, who perishes in the dismal, cruel domestic environment of the Russia of merchants and serfs.”[27] The opera’s portrayal of the corruption of the old bourgeois society is relentless: Shostakovich was evidently attempting to apply the Marxist theory of progress to the story.[28]
Lady Macbeth was innovative in many ways. The orchestral interludes, which ensure a sense of dramatic continuity, “serve the purpose of developing basic musical ideas and illustrating the action.”[29] The unflinching realism of the love scene between Katerina and Sergei shocked audiences worldwide. Nevertheless, Lady Macbeth is less stylistically arcane than The Nose; in fact, it is relatively conventional. The voice parts are “built on broad cantilena, making use of all available resources of the human voice”.[30] Shostakovich showed himself the equal of a Verdi or a Mussorgsky in his scope for powerful dramatic clarity. “I have tried to make the musical language of my opera as simple as possible,”[31] he said. It was in Lady Macbeth that he achieved a balance between the conventional and the modernistic, creating a “psychological drama with socio-critical overtones.”[32]
In January 1936, Stalin announced the new criteria for Soviet opera: these were “a libretto with a Socialist topic, a realistic musical language with stress on a national idiom, and a positive hero typifying the new Socialist era.”[33] As has been demonstrated, Lady Macbeth’s portrayal of the bourgeoisie could be seen as socialist propaganda, and the “realism” of the musical language can hardly be questioned, although the national idiom is largely obscured by the parody of “the false and lying methods of the composers of bourgeois society”. Shostakovich’s Katerina could be perceived as a modern woman trapped in a stifling archaic society, acting as a revolutionary who topples her oppressors; thus she typifies “the new Socialist era”. But could she be perceived as a “positive hero”? Shostakovich indeed wrote that he wanted to “justify Katerina so she would impress the audience as a positive character”,[34] and it is possible to interpret her as a noble human being that has cracked under appalling outward circumstances. Thus it is arguable that, on one level at least, Lady Macbeth met Stalin’s criteria.
Despite the fact that Shostakovich was perhaps the most ideologically committed of all the composers of his generation, he was fated to become the proverbial tall poppy of Soviet Russia. On the 26 January, 1936, Stalin and his close colleagues attended a Bolshoi production of Lady Macbeth; they left before the end of the opera.[35] Two days later, an unsigned editorial titled “Muddle instead of Music” was published in the Party’s official newspaper, Pravda. The editorial attacked Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District as a formalistic, “leftist deformation instead of natural, human music”, and warned that if Shostakovich continued in the same vein things “might end very badly”.[36] As Taruskin notes, “the same merciless rhetoric of political denunciation was directed, for the first time anywhere, at an artist.”[37] As if to make things absolutely clear, another article appeared in Pravda on February 6, condemning Shostakovich’s ballet portraying life on a collective farm, The Limpid Stream, as “Balletic Falsehood”.
The editorials had far-reaching consequences. For Shostakovich it meant a sharp fall from grace, a loss of income, and, if he did not correct his “mistakes”, a threat to his freedom and possibly his life. Pravda took pains to make it clear that all the arts, not just music, must follow the same rules, and that whoever continued in a formalistic vein would suffer the same fate as Shostakovich.[38] As far as Soviet music was concerned, everybody involved felt the impact of the editorials; composers and musicologists alike endorsed the Pravda articles, afraid of the consequences of not stepping in line with official opinion.[39] The Quiet Don, a song opera by Dzerzhinsky that Stalin and his companions had seen and approved a week before Lady Macbeth, was declared the prototype of Soviet opera. It was a work of little artistic merit, ironically dedicated to Shostakovich.[40] Its optimism and lack of complexity surely endeared it to Stalin; this was the kind of “socialist realism” he sought. The sphere of Soviet opera was subjected to numerous emulations of the work; meanwhile, Shostakovich withdrew his Fourth Symphony, deeming it risky to perform such a complex, pessimistic work in the circumstances.
It took Shostakovich almost a year to work up enough courage to begin the composition of his Fifth Symphony; but when he did, the process was incredibly swift. The third movement, for example, was written over three days.[41] Infamously subtitled “a Soviet artist’s response to just criticism”,[42] it received its immensely successful premiere in November 1937 under the baton of the young, then almost unknown, Yevgeny Mravinsky. Shostakovich said that “the theme of my symphony is the formation of a personality. At the center of the work’s conception I envisioned just that: a man in all his suffering.”[43] That Shostakovich was talking about himself there can hardly be any doubt. The symphony was seen as a personal perestroyka, or restructuring, by the authorities, and as such was approved, abetted, praised. Here was the work in which Shostakovich “apologised” for his former mistakes and sought to rectify his “formalistic” impulses of the past, adopting a clear musical idiom. The symphony was written on a large, heroic scale, classically divided into four movements. Formally, it was a return to tradition.
But, contrary to what the exultant regime believed, the Fifth Symphony did not present a radical change of style. The influence of the Pravda article over Shostakovich cannot be called into question: the composer certainly felt the threat over his head, fully comprehended the situation he was in and feared for his own life. Nevertheless, the style he exhibited in the Fifth Symphony was not an artificial break with his former ouvre; rather, it was the result of a natural evolution towards a more mature idiom.[44] For example, the strikingly conservative cello sonata that Shostakovich wrote in 1934 before the Pravda attack demonstrates a connection with the form, texture, tonality and rhythm of the Fifth Symphony.[45] Thus, it could be argued that the Fifth, officially celebrated as the composer’s perestroyka, would not be much different if the Pravda attack had never occurred.[46]
Nevertheless, Shostakovich was painfully aware of what was expected of him. Sensing that the funereal slow movement might be criticised for its pessimism, Shostakovich endeavoured to justify it by writing that “Soviet tragedy, as a genre, has every right to exist; but its content must be suffused with a positive idea, comparable, for example, to the life-affirming ardor of Shakespeare’s tragedies.”[47] It was thus that the symphony was given the oxymoronic epithet of “optimistic tragedy”.[48] Yet the “triumphal” quality of the D major coda, which “resolves the tense and tragic moments of the preceding movements in a joyous, optimistic fashion”,[49] is an object of controversy: ever since the first performance listeners have detected an element of hollowness in the fanfares. The dry ostentations of the trumpets and timpani, combined with the sparse orchestration and the linear, almost sketchy quality of the music, give credibility to such a reading. To quote Solomon Volkov, “It’s as if someone were beating you with a stick and saying, ‘Your business is rejoicing, your business is rejoicing,’ and you go marching off, muttering, ‘Our business is rejoicing, our business is rejoicing.’”[50] It seems appropriate to conclude, then, that the ending is a monument to socialist realism, as it leads the imagination to wonder what would be revealed were the brightly-coloured paint peeled off.
The importance of the polysemy and latent content of Shostakovich’s music is enormous.[51] The Fifth Symphony’s mournful slow movement provoked open weeping during its first performance, which was, crucially, at the height of the Yezhovshchina period of political terror. By the end of the period in 1953, the number of innocent victims executed in Stalin’s purges amounted to millions. Others were sent to gulag prison camps and often did not return. The music offered an outlet for sorrow that was rare in a socialist society that was forced to put on a brave face in a time of catastrophe; it also unified its audience with what has been called geselleschaftbildende Kraft or community-binding power.[52] The long-lasting ovations at the end of the symphony were a testimony to its greatness; it was a work that could be understood on many levels, pleasing both the officaldom and the general public. Ultimately, Shostakovich was awarded four Stalin Prizes and became Secretary of the Composer’s Union, Member of the Supreme Soviet, and Hero of Socialist Labour.
The pattern established by the Party’s attack on Lady Macbeth and glorification of the Fifth Symphony would continue for the rest of Shostakovich’s life. And yet he remained productive throughout the whole of the oppressive dictatorship of Stalin, surviving personal persecution to become one of the greatest symphonists of all time. His masterworks, among which the Fifth Symphony must be numbered, speak with incredible depth to the human heart; their many levels of meaning and scope for different interpretations create an incredible psychological complexity. That complexity and elusiveness from objective definitions characterises the music of Shostakovich as it characterises that of no other composer; the imprint of the times he wrote in survives in his works and touches us all.
[1] Richard Taruskin, Defining Russia Musically: Historical and Hermaneutical Essays (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1997), 508.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Ibid., 518.
[4] See ibid., Chapter 14.
[5] Gerald Abraham, Eight Soviet Composers (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1970), 14.
[6] Eric Roseberry, Ideology, Style, Content and Thematic Process in the Symphonies, Cello Concertos, and String Quartets of Shostakovich (New York: Garland Publishing, 1989), 2.
[7] When the opera was finally premiered in the form of a suite in 1930, it was ominously attacked by members of the RAPM as being “formalistic”. See Francis Maes, trans. Arnold Pomerans and Erica Pomerans, A History of Russian Music: From Kamarinskaya to Babi Yar (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 261-262.
[8] Boris Schwarz, “Shostakovich, Dmitry”, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: MacMillan, 2001), Vol. 23, 283.
[9] See Gerald Abraham, Eight Soviet Composers (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1970), 16.
[10] Solomon Volkov, quoted in Eric Roseberry, Shostakovich (London: Omnibus Press, 1981), 99.
[11] Boris Schwarz, Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia: 1917-1970 (London: Barrie & Jenkins, 1976), 109.
[12] Scott Davie, Lecture (Sydney Conservatorium of Music, University of Sydney: 2008).
[13] Boris Schwarz, Music and Musical Life, 129.
[14] Francis Maes, trans. Arnold Pomerans and Erica Pomerans, A History of Russian Music: From Kamarinskaya to Babi Yar (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002), 258.
[15] A term that meant “restructuring”.
[16] 1932 was also the year of Stalin’s second Five-Year Plan; “the atmosphere was one of crisis.” See Schwarz, Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia, 109.
[17] Francis Maes, A History of Russian Music, 253.
[18] Boris Schwarz, “Shostakovich, Dmitry”, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: MacMillan, 2001), Vol. 23, 284.
[19] Boris Schwarz, Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia: 1917-1970 (London: Barrie & Jenkins, 1976), 139.
[20] Francis Maes, A History of Russian Music, 253.
[21] Gerald Abraham, quoted in Schwartz, Music and Musical Life, 135.
[22] Gerald Abraham, Eight Soviet Composers (Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1970), 25.
[23] Quoted in ibid.
[24] Boris Schwarz, “Shostakovich, Dmitry”, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (London: MacMillan, 2001), Vol. 23, 287.
[25] Laurel Fay, Shostakovich: A Life, 78.
[26] Francis Maes, A History of Russian Music, 265.
[27] Boris Schwarz, Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia, 115.
[28] Francis Maes, A History of Russian Music, 264. The opera, described as a “satirical tragedy”, possesses lashings of the composer’s trademark humour – in this case black humour. Every character except Katerina is painted in a caricatural light: the father-in-law, the husband, the lover, the workers, the priest, and the police all sing to music filled with parodies of such popular genres as waltzes, foxtrots and polkas. Only Katerina’s music is pure, serious, and lyrical. It was through the music that Shostakovich sought to justify Katerina by “dehumanising” her oppressors. See Richard Taruskin, 498-504.
[29] Shostakovich, quoted in Nicholas Slonimsky, Music Since 1900, 5th ed. (New York: Shirmer Books, 1994), 366.
[30] Ibid.
[31] Ibid.
[32] Boris Schwarz, Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia, 120.
[33] Ibid., 123.
[34] Quoted in Francis Maes, A History of Russian Music, 265.
[35] Richard Taruskin, Defining Russia Musically: Historical and Hermaneutical Essays (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1997), 507.
[36] Ibid., 508.
[37] Ibid., 507.
[38] Boris Schwarz, Music and Musical Life, 129.
[39] Ibid., 128-129.
[40] Laurel Fay, Shostakovich: A Life (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 78.
[41] Elizabeth Wilson, Shostakovich: A Life Remembered (London: Faber and Faber, 2006), 150.
[42] This appellation was invented by a journalist, not the composer; see Wilson, 152.
[43] Richard Taruskin, Defining Russia Musically: Historical and Hermaneutical Essays (New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1997), 523.
[44] See J. D. Huband, “Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony: A Soviet Artist’s Reply…?”, Tempo, New Series, No. 173 (June 1990), 11-16.
[45] J. D. Huband, “Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony: A Soviet Artist’s Reply…?”, 13.
[46] See ibid., 11-16.
[47] Richard Taruskin, Defining Russia Musically, 523.
[48] Entelis, quoted in ibid., 524.
[49] Shostakovich. See ibid., 523-528.
[50] Quoted in Taruskin, 524.
[51] See ibid, 472; 477.
[52] “It is the power given only to the great symphonists – the power to weld an audience together, to uplift and to move masses of disparate people in one single emotion-controlled wave, sweeping aside all intellectual reservations.” Schwarz, Musical Life, 174.
Bibliography
Abraham, G. Eight Soviet Composers. Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1970.
Ardov, M., trans. Kelly, R. and Meylac, M. Memories of Shostakovich. London: Short Books, 2004.
Fanning, D., ed. Shostakovich Studies. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995.
Fay, L.E., Shostakovich: A Life. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000.
Fay, L.E., ed., Shostakovich and His World. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004.
Huband, J.D., “Shostakovich’s Fifth Symphony: A Soviet Artist’s Reply…?” in Tempo, New Series, No. 173, Soviet Issue, (Jun. 1990), Cambridge University Press, 11-16.
Martynov, I., trans. Guralsky, T. Dmitri Shostakovich: The Man and His Work. Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 1947.
Norris, C., ed. Shostakovich: the Man and his Music. London: Lawrence and Wishart, 1982.
Roseberry, E. Ideology, Style, Content, and Thematic Process in the Symphonies, Cello Concertos, and String Quartets of Shostakovich. New York: Garland Publishing, 1989.
Roseberry, E. Shostakovich. London: Omnibus Press, 1981.
Schwarz, B. Music and Musical Life in Soviet Russia, 1917-1970. London: Barrie & Jenkins, 1976.
Schwarz, B. “Shostakovich, Dmitry”, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie. London: Macmillan Press, 2001. Vol. 23, pp. 279-311.
Sheinberg, E. Irony, Satire, Parody and the Grotesque in the Music of Shostakovich: A Theory of Musical Incongruities. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000.
Shostakovich, Dmitri, Symphony No. 5. London: Ernst Eulenburg, n.d.
Taruskin, R. Defining Russia Musically: Historical and Hermaneutical Essays. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1997.
Discography
Haitink, Bernard, conductor. Shostakovich: Symphony No. 5; Symphony No. 9. Concertgebouw; London Philharmonic. Decca, 425 066-2.
Rostropovich, Mstislav, conductor. Shostakovich: Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk. Galina Vishnevskaya, London Philharmonic Orchestra. EMI, 023500.
© Copyright Sigrid Harris 2008.
Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis
Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis is a unique setting of the mass. Though Beethoven set out to write it for the celebration of the enthronisation of his favourite pupil and royal patron, the Archduke Rudolph, as the Archbishop of Olmütz,[1] this was merely a pretext to set upon a highly personal journey of self-questioning. For in the mass, Beethoven delved into the roots of his own faith, vigorously upturning the soil of his beliefs. The composition of the mass was inevitable: the ideas behind it must have been born in Beethoven’s mind much earlier than the year of 1818 when it became known that the Archduke Rudolph was to be enthronised. But the mass was never completed in time for the ceremony, and went through a gestation period of four years before it was finished. By the time it emerged full-fledged into the world, it had gained a wholly new dimension – not only was it enormous in sheer size, but it had become something of a personal testimony. Whilst retaining some points of contact with previous classical mass settings, the work is unconventional in its borrowing from older traditions. Essentially personal, it is more an individual assertion of faith than a public and institutional one and had considerable influence on the masses and requiems of 19th-century composers. This essay will examine how the mass relates to, and diverges from, previous classical settings of the mass both in style and as a public and institutional assertion of faith; further, the work’s fundamentally personal nature will be expounded on, as well as its influence on the masses and requiems of Schubert, Brahms and Dvorak.
As the Missa Solemnis is a work dating from Beethoven’s late period, it is only to be expected that it is in many ways extraordinary. It is then no surprise that the relationship it bears to previous classical mass settings is a curious one. Beethoven owes many of his basic forms to the tradition of the Viennese classical mass;[2] he was influenced to the greatest degree by Haydn. Like other Viennese masses, the Missa Solemnis does not follow most of the directives of the Roman Missal as to how masses should be composed – for example, in the Credo, as in the Gloria, the Roman Missal directs that the first words, “Credo in unum Deum”, should be intoned by the priest; these words are never set in early masses, such as those of Palestrina. But composers of Viennese masses almost always set the opening words for choir, and Beethoven did likewise. Nevertheless, the masses of Viennese composers were mostly missa breves, masses so brief that they had to employ time-saving devices such as the overlapping of verbal phrases.[3] Beethoven, on the other hand, treated the set text with the deepest respect. The Missa Solemnis is most comparable to Haydn’s solemn masses, which show “an expansion of scale over previous masses in the Viennese tradition.”[4]
Haydn’s Missa in tempore belli includes fanfares in the trumpets and drums at the climaxes of both the Benedictus and Agnus Dei;[5] in the Agnus Dei of the Missa Solemnis, we hear similar fanfares. These fanfares did not serve merely decorative purposes – they reflected on the political and military situation of the time. In the 1820’s the military threat of both the Turks and Napoleon was still fresh in the memories of the Viennese, and thus the political climate came to be reflected in the music.
Nevertheless, whilst Haydn’s “war music” is almost genial in character, the interruptions of the trumpets and timpani in the “Dona nobis” of the Agnus Dei in the Missa Solemnis are severely disquieting. We are reminded that peace may be temporary and that the enemy may still be lurking in the distance. No composer except Beethoven would have dared to treat the Agnus Dei with such pessimism. Although the first section of the movement was traditionally treated in a minor key, in the Missa Solemnis it has a black subterranean resonance about it that is unparalleled. Beethoven set the section in B minor, “a dark tonality”[6] which he very rarely used. Considering the text,[7] his treatment of it might suggest that he felt deep anguish about the suffering of Christ for the redemption of humanity; the pained mourning of the solo voices is weighed down by the presence of sin which they beg to have absolved.
As convention decrees, the “Dona nobis” is in the major and involves a suitably communal and joyful – although not exultant – choir. It even includes some pastoral music, which reflects the kind of peace Beethoven must have desired for himself as well as for Vienna. But more than once when the piece seems to be drawing to a close the music is interrupted by the persistent rumble of the timpani, which reminds us again that the prayer for peace must not necessarily be granted. The interpretation of the text is highly personal – and this may be said of the whole mass.
Although Beethoven’s greatest influence among the classical composers was Haydn, he was also influenced by Cherubini, whose mass writing was more contrapuntal than that of Haydn’s. Cherubini’s earliest masses “show his intensive practice in the stile antico”[8] and in his mass in F he included a fugue in the “Christe Eleison” section of the Kyrie as well as extensive fugues in the usual places.[9] This must have appealed to Beethoven, who by his late period had come by something of an obsession for fugal writing.
As has been demonstrated, the Missa Solemnis retains several points of contact with previous classical mass settings, and upon deeper analysis further technical similarities could be discovered. However, it diverges from its predecessors because it is essentially a personal assertion of faith, not a public and institutional one. The setting is greatly original in nature and hardly fits within the confines of the classical style. It is deeply unorthodox, including many deliberate archaisms – the mass is entrenched in musical traditions much older than those of Beethoven’s immediate predecessors. In the Gloria and Credo especially, “the traditions of the Viennese mass are made to accommodate older traditions deliberately resuscitated; Beethoven rubs shoulders with Haydn (the Haydn of the masses), Palestrina, Handel and Bach.”[10] That Beethoven studied the music of these composers it is certain: according to Thayer, when Beethoven died he possessed full scores of Handel’s Messiah and Alexander’s Feast, and Bach’s Art of Fugue, as well as the works of his classical contemporaries.[11]
Beethoven’s admiration for Handel was great. There was a blazing, radiant quality to much of Handel’s choral writing which Beethoven took and metamorphosed. Many of the choral passages in the Missa Solemnis have a glowingly joyous quality to them. In the Gloria, for example, the blaze of the voices is almost aggressively exultant, the upper female voices sounding out the beautiful wrath of avenging angels.[12] These angels were more than a congregation, but actual spirits glowing with a personal flame. That the Baroque master influenced Beethoven to a great extent there can be no doubt.[13]
The Missa Solemnis also touches on the realm of Palestrina and his contemporaries. The aura of early music can be felt in many places, such as “Et resurrexit” in the Credo, during which the choral tenors are joined in rhythmical unison by the the altos and basses in an a cappella declamation of the words that is reminiscent of 16th-century masses. Another example of reference to early music is “Et in terra pax” in the Kyrie; it has a modal flavour and is strongly reminiscent, with its rhythmical unison, of the Gregorian chant. Beethoven’s study of early music is obvious; not only was he familiar with the masses of Palestrina but he had already envisioned the use of “the ancient modes” in another project.[14] Thus it could be said that Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis is something of a time machine: travelling from his classical Viennese present back through the centuries, and indeed even heralding the future in his innovative creation.
Another of the startlingly unconventional facets of the mass is the predominance of instrumental music within it; not only is there an extensive violin solo in the Sanctus and Benedictus that seems to transcend earthly dimensions, but the orchestra “sings” the rhythm of the words “Kyrie eleison” before the choir enters. The military kit of trumpet and drums is present from the very beginning, though its role is most dominant in the Agnus Dei. It may thus be concluded that within the mass, the orchestra is not confined to the role of accompaniment but actually plays an almost equal part to the singers.
In the Sanctus and Benedictus another artistic unorthodoxy comes to light. Conventionally, there are two sections to the movement, the first beginning with “Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus” and the second with “Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini”; according to the Roman Missal there should indeed be a small gap between the two to make time for the Elevation of the Host. During this gap there was sometimes a modest improvisation by the organist. In the Missa Solemnis, however, Beethoven linked the sections together, breaking with tradition and treading on completely new ground.[15]
From what has already been stated, the Missa Solemnis is a highly individual interpretation of the mass text and serves as a personal assertion of faith. Despite being intended for a public ceremony, it grew into a colossal statement of Beethoven’s beliefs and ideas. It contains the depths of Beethoven’s most private spiritual feeling, which is innovatively often communicated first by the group of soloists and is echoed and built on by the chorus and orchestra. Traditionally, in festive masses the solo singers expected to have extensive virtuosic passages in which they could exhibit their vocal technique to the full. Beethoven, however, followed Haydn by treating his soloists more as a concertante group interweaving with the choir, as was the Baroque practice. He went entirely against the grain by giving the solo voices, who usually had no narrative significance whatever, almost all the subjective utterance: the soloists became his spokespeople for the most personal statements of belief and the most troubling questionings, whilst the choir became the community, the congregation, repeating the soloists’ declarations in sheep-like awe.[16] The choir then serves to symbolise institutional belief and perhaps in a broader sense collective humanity, whereas the soloists are individuals.
Nevertheless, despite its personal nature, the mass does have communal aspects. The majestic vastness of the chorus and orchestra mandates that the strength of the universal feeling that is demonstrated by the performers creates a powerful binding force that is far beyond something private and personal in the manner of chamber music. But this very greatness of feeling stems from Beethoven’s mind and could only take shape in something truly monumental. Any less than the forces he employed would not be sufficient for the assertion of his personal beliefs. The presence of the soloists in the mass proves it to be a personal work in essence.
The individualised setting of the Missa Solemnis had considerable influence on masses of the 19th century, particularly those of Schubert and Bruckner, as well as on the requiems of Brahms and Dvorak. Nineteenth century masses in general turned away from liturgical use and were most frequently found in the concert hall. Not being institutional any longer, the masses immediately gained a more personal flavour, and composers became freer to express their own individual religious feeling. This was very much in accord with the spirit of Romanticism. Beethoven’s retrieval of past traditions also influenced his successors – reaching back into earlier periods served to enrich their musical language, as well as to give their work an aura of timelessness. It must therefore be acknowledged that Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis set a unique example for subsequent mass settings and requiems, an example that could be labelled a pursuit for inner truth.
It is notable that the mature masses of Schubert were almost all based upon internal impulse rather on external events, and his whole work as a composer is saturated in personal religious devotion. The Mass in E flat is perhaps the most personal of all his masses. The inheritance of the symphonic style is clearly Beethovenian, and “the concluding Gloria and Credo fugues, with their sharply chiselled subjects, suggest a composer who had studied Beethoven’s Missa solemnis.”[17] The Agnus Dei is not only full of colourful chromaticisms but harks back to Bach, taking as its basis an adaptation of the C sharp minor fugue subject from the first book of Bach’s Das wohltemperirte Clavier.[18] Thus it is not only highly individual in its subjective idiom but also in the way it draws on past traditions.
Brahms’ German Requiem is, to say the least, unorthodox. Brahms entirely substitutes the Latin text of the Requiem with an independent collection of German texts that has no liturgical purpose. [19] Brahms’ comment on his own work, “I will admit that I could happily omit the ‘German’ and simply say ‘Human’…” describes the requiem astutely. Although taking from the Christian tradition, there is no direct mention of redemption through Christ throughout the whole work, making it universally religious rather than limited to a particular cult. In all of this inheritance from the Missa Solemnis can be found.
Dvorak’s Requiem is a haunting work very different to Brahms’ setting of a similar name, yet it likewise shows many traces of the influence of the Missa Solemnis. Dvorak was deeply religious, but his setting of the text is non-liturgical and closer to an oratorio than anything else. It is symphonic and almost shockingly personal in nature, and reaches far back into the traditions of the Gregorian chant as well as those of the Czech Gothic hymn. Further, the chromatic four-note motif that recurs consistently throughout the work seems to indirectly quote the fugue subject of the second Kyrie subsection in Bach’s B minor mass, one of the monuments of the choral settings of the Baroque period.
In conclusion, the Missa Solemnis is wonderfully astonishing in many ways. Although it obeys some conventions of Viennese mass writing, it could hardly be called a public and institutional assertion of faith in any normal sense, and is indeed so personal that had it been truly understood during its time it would have likely caused a scandal. It is perhaps not wholly comprehended even today – there are some things about such a work that must remain a mystery, veiled to all but the spirit of Beethoven incarnate in the music. Its individualistic and personal nature unsurprisingly had an impact on subsequent 19th century settings, and indeed even on those of the 20th century. Beethoven’s genius had an enormous impact on all music and musicians that came after him – and there is no greater example of that genius than the Missa Solemnis. So long as humanity lasts on this earth, the spirit of Beethoven will forever live on through it.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Score examined:
Beethoven, Ludwig van, ed. Willy Hess. Missa Solemnis., London: Ernst Eulenburg, n.d.
Sources consulted:
Bozarth, George S., and Frisch, Walter. “Brahms, Johannes.” The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians. Ed. Stanley Sadie. London: Macmillan Press, 2001. Vol. 4, pp. 180-227.
Cooper, Martin. Beethoven: The Last Decade 1817-1827. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1985.
Doge, Klaus. “Dvorak, Antonin.” The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians. Ed. Stanley Sadie. London: Macmillan Press, 2001. Vol. 7, pp. 777-814.
Drabkin, William. Beethoven: Missa Solemnis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991.
Fiske, Roger. Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis. London: Paul Elek, 1979.
Hindley, Geoffrey, ed., The Larousse Encyclopedia of Music. N.p.: Hamlyn, 1994. 17th impression.
Jones, David Wyn. The Life of Beethoven, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998.
Kerman, Joseph, et al. “Beethoven, Ludwig van.” The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians. Ed. Stanley Sadie. London: Macmillan Press, 2001. Vol. 3, pp. 73-140.
Kirkendale, Warren. “New roads to old ideas in Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis.” The Creative World of Beethoven. Ed. Paul Henry Lang. New York: Norton, 1970.
McKinnon, James W., et al. “Mass.” The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians. Ed. Stanley Sadie. London: Macmillan Press, 2001. Vol.16, pp. 58-85.
Solomon, Maynard. Late Beethoven: Music, Thought, Imagination. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003.
Sullivan, J.W.N. Beethoven: His Spiritual Development. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1979.
Tame, David. Beethoven and the Spiritual Path. Illinois: Theosophical Publishing House, 1994.
Thayer, Alexander Wheelock. Thayer’s Life of Beethoven. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1967.
Winter, Robert. “Reconstructing Riddles: The Sources for Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis.” Eds. Lewis Lockwood and Phyllis Benjamin. Beethoven Essays: Studies in Honor of Elliot Forbes. Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1984.
Winter, Robert, et al. “Schubert, Franz.” The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians. Ed. Stanley Sadie. London: Macmillan Press, 2001. Vol. 22, pp.655-729.
.
[1] Joseph Kerman, et al, “Beethoven, Ludwig”, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (Macmillan Press, London, 2001), vol. 3, pp. 73-140.
[2] See Roger Fiske, Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis (Paul Elek, London, 1979), Chapter 1.
[3] Composers such as Mozart and Michael Haydn were commissioned by the Archbishop of Salzburg to write masses that were limited to approximately 20 minutes in length, which made the repetition of words in the Gloria and the Credo impossible.
[4] James W. McKinnon, et al, “Mass”, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (Macmillan Press, London, 2001), vol.16, p. 81.
[5] Ibid.
[6] Beethoven once made a note calling it this. See Willy Hess’ Introduction to the Eulenburg score, p. xiii.
[7] Lamb of God, thou takest away the sins of the world.
[8] James W. McKinnon, et al, “Mass”, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (Macmillan Press, 2001), vol. 16, p. 81.
[9] Ibid.
[10] J. Kerman, et al, “Beethoven”, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, 2001, vol. 3, p. 105.
[11] Alexander Wheelock Thayer, Thayer’s Life of Beethoven (Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1967).
[12] Richard Toop, Lecture (Sydney Conservatorium of Music, Monday, 7th of May, 2007).
[13] It is known that Beethoven actually copied out Handel’s Hallelujah chorus from the Messiah by hand in preparation for the writing of the Missa solemnis.
[14] Also for voices. Beethoven once said that “Pure church music should be performed only by voices…” That the Missa solemnis would not comply with Beethoven’s own notion of “pure” church music is suggestive: the mass is not in any way a conventional institutional setting. See Geoffrey Hindley, ed. The Larousse Encyclopedia of Music (n.p., Hamlyn, 1994), p. 268.
[15] Roger Fiske, Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis, (Paul Elek, London, 1979), p. 12.
[16] Although at other times, they were more like “the heavenly host” that Handel thought he saw before him whilst he composed. Richard Toop, Lecture (Sydney Conservatorium of Music, Monday, 7th of May, 2007).
[17] Robert Winter, et al, “Schubert, Franz”, The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians, ed. Stanley Sadie (Macmillan Press, London, 2001), vol. 22, p. 680.
[18]Ibid., p. 681.
[19] Fifteen passages from Martin Luther’s translation of the Bible.
The Rise and Decline of Buddhism in India
When Buddhism arose in India in the 6th century B.C.E. it quickly grew into a great religion, due to a multiplicity of reasons. Nevertheless, after several centuries it began to decline, and by the thirteenth century C.E. it had disappeared from its native land altogether.[1] A different set of environmental factors played a part in both the rise and the decline. At its inception, the spiritual climate of India was ideal for the founding of a new religion; Brahmanism had lost its appeal and the alternative ascetic practices that some resorted to were not suitable for the majority of people. Buddhism provided a path to Nirvana that everyone could take, and the innate compassion at the heart of the Buddha’s teachings drew many to it. But the gradual decay of its moral and intellectual standards and the emergence of a new Hinduism, combined with the anti-Buddhist campaigns of the Muslims, ushered the religion to its decline.
At the time Siddhartha Gautama[2] was born, India was a land of prevailing social unrest and political instability. There were sixteen major states and several smaller ones in northern India alone. Though there were many different forms of government, monarchies and oligarchical republics were predominant. A money economy had developed, giving rise to an immense accumulation of wealth in the mercantile class in particular. Merchants were frequently wealthier than kings, creating a dire struggle between political and economic power. As A.K. Warder observes, “In this society most people found their freedom seriously and increasingly restricted, their property and their lives insecure, the future uncertain and probably worse than the past.”[3]
The traditional religion of India, Brahmanism, could offer little comfort to the common people. The brahmins, the top social caste, had become extremely powerful due to their crucial role in the execution of sacrifices, which, if correctly performed, had immense mystical potency.[4] Nevertheless, few could afford to pay for these sacrifices. Brahmanism, with recondite teachings that were understood only by the uppermost elite, had little appeal for the masses.
Many were dissatisfied with Brahmanical society, and a number of unorthodox philosophical sects arose. The main schools were those of the Jains, Ajivikas, Lokayatas, and Agnostics. But the rigorous ascetic practices engendered by most of these were too exacting for the majority of householders.
The new school of unorthodoxy founded by the Buddha, on the other hand, demanded no intense physical austerities; his teachings were simple and empirical, accessible to all. Unlike Brahmanism, which was essentially ritualistic and mythological, the Buddha’s teachings were inherently psychological. He stated that each person could achieve Nirvana, the ultimate spiritual fulfilment and dissolution of the ego. He preached in the vernacular, Pali, so even the lower castes could hear his message. Buddhism effectively ignored caste – all castes could follow the Middle Way and eventually gain enlightenment, no matter how low they were in society. An order of nuns was established alongside an order of monks; in all of this there was a pervading notion of social equality that gave the religion strength. As well as the religion’s optimistic outlook on the potential of each individual to transcend suffering, its accessibility and democracy rendered it immensely appealing to the people.
The establishment of the Sangha[5] played an important role in the religion’s rise. The Sangha referred to the community of monks and nuns which linked all Buddhist monasteries together; it served as a spiritual example for the lay community. Buddhism was a proselytising religion; its monks and nuns were zealous about spreading the Buddha’s message, and some monks even risked their lives by travelling out of India to preach the way out of suffering. Thus, the Sangha played a crucial role to the early success of Buddhism.
Buddhism was also highly economical. The lavish expenditure required for Vedic sacrifices had taken its toll on many; monarchs had often taxed their subjects for the funds and those in poorer circumstances had no means of assuring their personal prosperity by sacrifice. Following the Eightfold Path of the Buddha, on the other hand, cost nothing.
The royal patronage Buddhism gained from its very inception further strengthened the religion. The Buddha, a Kshatriya prince who had forsaken his former life to gain enlightenment, attracted the notice of many kings. Bimbisara and Ajatasatru of Magadha and Prasenajit of Kosala were only a few of the numerous rulers who converted to the new religion.[6] The support of the ruling class would become significant to the propagation of Buddhism, but it was only one of the many factors that surrounded the religion’s rise. It was the innate merit of the Buddha’s teachings that, sowed in the right historical environment, assured the religion a blossoming future.
But Buddhism’s glory in India would not last forever: in the 7th century C.E., the Chinese Buddhist monk Hsüan Tsang noted that Theravada Buddhism was hovering on the verge of non-existence in most of the Indian subcontinent.[7] Buddhism as a whole had already embarked on a steady decline. It was becoming tainted in many ways: “From the end of the Gupta period onwards Indian religion became more and more permeated with primitive ideas of sympathetic magic and sexual mysticism, and Buddhism was much affected by these developments.”[8] The direct result of this permeation was the birth of a third vehicle,[9] “the Vehicle of the Thunderbolt”, Vajrayana. This new sect misinterpreted religious tenets and allowed the use of intoxicants; it was also lenient in the upholding of celibacy.[10]
The Sangha as a whole became corrupt. From the many donations it received, it became rich, and monks began to ignore the tenth rule of the Vinaya and accepted silver and gold. The Mahayana school introduced expensive rituals and ceremonies into the religion, causing it to cease to be economical.
Another Chinese traveller of the 7th century, Yuan Chwang, wrote “The different schools are constantly at variance, and their utterances rise like angry waves of the sea…there are 18 schools, each claiming pre-eminence.”[11] The many rivalries between sects destroyed the image the masses held of Buddhism. The religious texts of the Mahayana and Vajrayana schools began to be written in Sanskrit, a literary language that most Indians did not understand; this further distanced Buddhism from the common people.
Much of the decline of Buddhism was caused by its own failings; it could not meet the popularity of the re-emerged Hinduism. As an essentially non-theistic religion, it could not achieve the same success with the masses as Hinduism, which possessed a pantheon of gods that could intervene in the affairs of men if appeased. The moral corruption of Buddhism also caused a degeneration in its intellectual standards; the Hindus, on the other hand, had a strong scholarly foundation.
After the renowned Buddhist king Ashoka, the majority of Indian rulers supported the new Hinduism. It had the patronage of the Gupta rulers and most of the Rajput rulers, ensuring it prosperity and success among the people. Hinduism also incorporated many Buddhistic elements, such as preaching monks and religious processions; it further claimed the Mahatma Buddha as one of the incarnations of the lord Vishnu. Therefore the common man did not make any great distinction between Hinduism and Buddhism; the new Hinduism embraced some of Buddhism, making it unnecessary for the masses to honour Buddhism alone.[12]
Persecution of Buddhists also played a part in the downfall of the religion. The Muslim invasions left India scarred; the invaders destroyed Buddhist monasteries and universities wherever they went. As Warder writes, “It is hardly necessary to emphasise the thoroughness with which the older religions have been obliterated in practically every country where Muslims have ruled for any length of time.”[13] Though Hinduism was able to sustain itself through these times, Buddhism had been increasingly weak and these raids dealt a final blow.
To conclude, Buddhism from its inception was a religion that captured the enthusiasm of the rich and poor alike. It was a religion that preached a way out of suffering, in a simple and direct fashion that could be understood by the common man. Unlike the Brahmanism that had become too recondite and scholarly for the masses, Buddhism fulfilled the spiritual needs of the people; every person could work their way towards enlightenment. Its notions of social equality earned it much success and the establishment of the Sangha gave it strength. As it was a proselytising religion it spread quickly. It flourished for centuries, but eventually, the corruption of the Sangha, the rivalries between sects, and the lack of protection from the ruling class weakened Buddhism and made it unable to compete with the reformed Hinduism. The anti-Buddhist campaigns led by the Muslims caused its final downfall, and Buddhism eventually entirely disappeared from India between 1000 and 1200 C.E.[14] It left India with a rich legacy that was partially incorporated into Hinduism, and owing to the zest of the Buddhist missionaries, numerous countries were converted to Buddhism; many of them remain Buddhist to this day. Buddhism is at present a world religion, and humankind is the better for it.
Bibliography
Bailey, G. and Mabbett, I., The Sociology of Early Buddhism, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 2003.
Basham, A. L., The Wonder That Was India: A Survey of the Culture of the Indian Subcontinent Before the Coming of the Muslims, London, Sidgwick and Jackson, 1954.
Conze, E., Buddhism: Its Essence and Development, Oxford, Bruno Cassirer, 1951.
De Bary, W. T., ed., Sources of Indian Tradition, vol. 1, New York, Columbia University Press, 1958.
Hirakawa, A., trans. & ed. Groner, P., A History of Indian Buddhism: From Sakyamuni to Early Mahayana, Honolulu, University of Hawaii Press, 1990.
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[1] E. Conze, Buddhism: Its Essence and Development, Oxford, 1951, p.117.
[2] Called the Buddha (“Enlightened One”) by posterity; also known as Tathagata (“Thus-Come”) or Shakyamuni (“Sage of the Shakyas”). The accepted dates of his life are 567-487 B.C.E; see K.M. Panikar, A Survey of Indian History, London, 1963, p. 19.
[3] A.K. Warder, Indian Buddhism, Delhi, 1980, p. 30.
[4] Ibid, p. 67.
[5] Loosely translated as “Church”.
[6] L.P. Sharma, History of Ancient India, Delhi, 1987, p. 86.
[7] A.L. Basham, The Wonder That Was India, London, 1954, p.265.
[8] A.L. Basham, The Wonder That Was India: A Survey of the Culture of the Indian Sub-Continent Before the Coming of the Muslims, London, 1954, p. 265.
[9] The other two vehicles were Hinayana (“Lesser Vehicle”, also known as Theravada) and Mahayana (“Greater Vehicle”).
[10] A.L. Basham, The Wonder That Was India, London, 1954, p. 265.
[11] Quoted in L.P. Sharma, History of Ancient India, Delhi, 1987, p. 87.
[12] A.L. Basham, The Wonder That Was India, London, 1954, pp. 265-266.
[13] A.K. Warder, Indian Buddhism, Delhi, 1980, p. 508.
[14] E. Conze, Buddhism: Its Essence and Development, Oxford, 1951, p.117.
