A well-meaning critic wrote in 1927, after the first performance of Janáček’s Glagolitic Mass:  “Janáček, now an old man and a firm believer, feels with increasing urgency that the expression of his relationship to God must not be missing from his life’s work.”  The 73-year-old composer sent the critic an angry postcard:  “No old man, no believer.”  Janáček had no patience for the kind of clichés to which the critic resorted in his review.  As a self-proclaimed agnostic, he still had a reason to turn to the words of the Mass, but he wanted to do it his way, emphasizing the human, rather than the transcendent, elements of the sacred words while espousing no “official,” pre-established attitudes toward religion.  

The very choice of language showed the individuality of his approach.  The Czech lands were (and still are) Roman Catholic, and the language of the liturgy had traditionally been Latin.  But Janáček was a staunch supporter of the pan-Slavic idea (the brotherhood of all Slavic peoples) and an enthusiastic reader of Russian literature, which inspired many of his works.  To him, the language of the Russian Orthodox Church—Old Slavonic—captured the very essence of the Slavic spirit.  He was also very conscious of the fact that the predecessor of the Cyrillic alphabet, the so-called Glagolitic script (from the Slavic root glagol, “word”), was created in what is now Moravia, Janáček's own home province, by the brothers Cyril and Methodius, two missionaries sent from Greece in the 9^th century to evangelize the Slavic peoples.  The brothers were the first to develop a script for the Slavonic language which at that time was still fairly uniform, with the linguistic boundaries between Czech, Polish, Russian etc. not yet clearly drawn.  As the new Slavic national languages developed, Old Slavonic was retained as a liturgical language, but became otherwise obsolete.  

What he may not have realized was on what slippery grounds he was treading when turning to this ancient language.  For one thing, no original Missals are extant from the time of Cyril and Methodius.  Janáček found his text in two early 20^th-century publications, based on a 14^th-century Croatian source, and edited full of errors and inconsistencies.  Any attempt at a Roman transliteration only compounds the problems.  The version found in the score, although it passed through the hands of a language editor, is neither authentic or linguistically correct.  Yet this is what we have to reproduce here, in accordance with the words sung; it is the closest to what Janáček had to work with.  (A more scholarly version of the text may be found in Paul Wingfield’s study of the Glagolitic Mass in the Cambridge Music Handbook series.)

In spite of the special problems associated with Old Slavonic, there is no doubt that the choice of language freed Janáček from the weight of the thousand-year-old tradition of Latin Mass settings, where certain words and sentences had developed their own, almost inescapable, musical shapes.  Yet a large-scale Slavonic Mass, with orchestral accompaniment, would have no place in an actual church service, since the Orthodox Church traditionally uses no instruments at all.

Janáček applied the instantly recognizable musical style of his later years to the sacred words.  The fanfare-like opening of the instrumental Introduction is reminiscent of the popular Sinfonietta, completed just before the Mass in 1926.  In addition to the brass, the woodwind instruments come to the fore with a lyrical idea.  The combination of their timbres anticipates the organ, which will play such an important role later on.

The theme of the “Gospodi pomiluj” (“Kyrie”) is heard in the orchestra before the chorus takes it over; it is one of those poignant short motifs that are so typical of Janáček’s late music.  The central section, “Chrste pomiluj” brings in the soprano soloist, as happens in many corresponding “Christe eleison’s” in the literature.  Yet the mood here is not more lyrical than in the “Gospodi,” but rather more insistent and agitated.  The recapitulation is limited to a single statement of “Gospodi.”

“Gloria’s” in Latin Masses are almost always grandiose choral statements, but Janáček’s “Slava” is something different:  an intimate expression of joy.  The solo soprano begins in an extremely high register, accompanied by equally high-pitched instruments (woodwinds, strings), and harp.  The chorus only joins in later, and does not take over the lead until the second section, in which an animated orchestral transition prepares for the words “We praise you.”  The words “God the Father almighty” are declaimed in the style of Janáček’s operas against a stubbornly repeated four-note motif that carries through into the next section, where the tenor soloist enters for the first time.  (Has there ever been a tenor part whose first note was a high B flat?)  The movement closes with a vigorous and rhythmically exciting “Amen,” complete with timpani and full organ.

In the “Vĕruju” (“Credo”), Janáček retained the “Amen” figure from the ending of the previous movement and combined it with the “Credo” motif.  The tenor strikes a more lyrical note at the words “God from God,” a section rounded off by a return of the initial rhythmic motif and the word “I believe.”  A lengthy instrumental interlude follows that, according to one commentator, describes Christ’s life, to compensate for a gap in the text that skips directly from incarnation to crucifixion.  The interlude begins tenderly, with soft woodwinds and strings, but soon picks up considerable momentum.  It ends with an organ solo, whose tormented harmonies prepare the entrance of the chorus on the words “He was crucified.”   By contrast, the resurrection is narrated calmly by the women’s voices.  In his book on Janáček, Jaroslav Vogel wirtes:  “They are the voices of the women who visited Christ’s tomb and found it empty, and are bringing the news of the mysterious miracle.”  The remainder of the Creed is, in a sense, a single continuous crescendo culminating in the affirmation of eternal life and, again, repeated vigorous shouts of “Amen.”

The “Svet” (“Sanctus”), adorned by an exquisite violin solo, has reminded one commentator of “Christ the King…”  The tempo speeds up at “Heaven and earth are full of your glory” and calms down again for the Benedictus (“Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord”).  The introspective Benedictus is consistently played off against the more agitated Osanna.

The “Lamb of God” movement, for the first time, employs all four vocal soloists, whose successive entrances are framed by a terse choral refrain, all enveloped in a hauntingly beautiful orchestral figure moving in equal eighth-notes.  (It is significant that Janáček omitted the words “Grant us peace” and instead, ended the movement with a third repeat of the plea “Have mercy on us.”)

The words of the liturgy are now complete, but the composition is not finished:  a turbulent, virtuosic organ solo follows, oddly contradicting the feelings of comfort with which the “Lamb of God” movement ended.  “All vestiges of optimism are blown away by an explosion of the crucifixion key:  A-flat minor” – writes Paul Wingfield in his study of the work.  

More uplifting is the closing Intrada.  In the original version, this vigorous fanfare was intended to be played both at the beginning and at the end of the work, which explains its title (“Entrance”).  Yet for all its rhythmic energy, the Intrada cannot quite dispel the earlier tensions.  It seems that to Janáček, the words of the Mass offered little comfort.  They remained the expression of a poignant human drama, rather than an act of faith.