Throughout his long life, Giuseppe Verdi devoted his energies almost exclusively to the writing of operas.  He wrote only a few works in other forms, of which the Requiem is by far the most important.  Since it is a vocal work, with parts every bit as demanding as any Verdian stage role, commentators have been quick to call the Requiem “operatic.”  (The first to do so—and he definitely did not mean it as a compliment—was Hans von Bülow, the German pianist-conductor, soon after his wife, Cosima Liszt, left him for Richard Wagner.)  Granted, Verdi was true to his own unmistakable personal style which is primarily known from his operas.  Yet it is important to remember that many of Verdi’s operas contain scenes of religious inspiration (the “Miserere” in Il trovatore and the “Ave Maria” in Otello are only two of the most famous examples), yet they are not considered any less operatic for containing sacred texts.  Indeed, any separation between sacred and secular in Verdi’s work is artificial; what mattered to him was to express human emotions through the human voice, whatever the nature or the source of those emotions might be.  

Unlike most of Verdi’s operas, the Mass of the Dead was not commissioned by anyone; the composition was the composer’s own initiative, a project that occupied him for several years during which time he wrote no new operas.  As a matter of fact, one has to talk about not one project but two, for the Requiem idea first arose in a form that never came to fruition.

On November 13, 1868, Gioachino Rossini passed away at the age of 76.  The last surviving member of the great triumvirate of opera composers before Verdi was gone (Bellini and Donizetti had died many years earlier).  With the help of his publisher, Tito Ricordi invited a group of composers to write a collaborative Requiem.  The composers duly completed their work, but the performance fell through because of technical difficulties.  (The Messa per Rossini remained unperformed until 1988.) 

Verdi had written the “Libera me” movement for this composite Requiem; this extremely powerful contribution was subsequently languishing in the composer’s drawer.  Four years passed before Verdi decided to write an entire Requiem Mass of his own, to incorporate the unused “Libera me.”  The completed work was dedicated to the memory of another great Italian artist, the novelist Alessandro Manzoni, who passed away at the age of 88 on May 22, 1873.  Verdi may have thought that, having completed Aida in 1871, he would write no more operas (his two late masterpieces for the theater, Otello and Falstaff, would come many years later).  By turning to sacred music, he may also have seen a parallel with Rossini who, after the end of his operatic career, went on to write his Stabat Mater and his Petite messe solennelle.  

Verdi deeply revered Manzoni, whose novel I promessi sposi (“The Betrothed”) is one of the great classics of Italian literature.  He offered his Requiem to the city of Milan, where Manzoni had made his home, to be performed on the first anniversary of the novelist’s death.  

This time, nothing stood in the way of the performance; the premiere, at Milan’s San Marco church, was a resounding success and was followed by three more performances at La Scala, Milan’s famous opera house.  (The two female soloists, Teresa Stolz and Maria Waldmann, were the first Aida and the first Amneris, respectively.)  Within a year, the work was performed in Paris, London, Vienna, and New York.

Any composer writing a Requiem in the 1870s had to be keenly aware of the great previous accomplishments of Mozart, Berlioz, and Cherubini (the latter less familiar today, but held in high esteem throughout the 19th century).  The first thing Verdi had to do is to define his own personal approach to the subject.  From the outset, he clearly intended to give the vocal soloists far more important roles than had been the case in other Requiems.  In addition, he was committed to driving home the emotional meaning of the text as strongly as possible.  As a result, the very first word,  “Requiem,” is whispered rather than sung by the chorus, avoiding any musical embellishments that would distract from the word itself.   Soon after that, of course, Verdi unleashed some of the great melodies of which he was the undisputed master.  But his use of melody in the Requiem is always determined by what the sacred text calls for.  The contrast between the whispered word “Requiem” and the beautiful violin melody that introduces the words “lux perpetua” (eternal light) shows how deeply Verdi penetrated the spirit of that text.  For “Te decet hymnus,” Verdi wrote a hymn for unaccompanied chorus, whose contrapuntal imitations suggest Renaissance polyphony.  After a return of the “Requiem aeternam” section (with choral whispers and lyrical violins) the soloists take over in the “Kyrie,” a fervent plea for mercy (“eleison”).

The dramatic high point of the Requiem is, without question, the monumental “Dies irae,” based on the famous medieval poem, attributed to Thomas of Celano (around 1250), depicting the Last Judgment.  The mighty strokes of the timpani and bass drum serve as a backdrop for one of the most powerful expressions of fear and anguish in the entire history of music.  The eruption of intense emotions gradually yields to silent shudders at the words “Quantus tremor est futurus” (‟How great a trembling there shall be”).   Another violent explosion occurs at “Tuba mirum” (with onstage and offstage brass), followed by a whisper expressing the “stupefied” (stupebit) state in which Death and Nature find themselves at the sound of the trumpet.  The same extremes characterize the mezzo-soprano solo “Liber scriptus” (‟A Written Book”) which culminates in a reprise of the movement’s dramatic opening.  

The mood changes in “Quid sum miser,” as the tempo slows down and the mezzo-soprano begins a lyrical melody surrounded by the figurations of a solo bassoon.  This is where the poem suddenly switches to first person singular:  “What can a wretch like me say?”  The section evolves into a profoundly moving trio between soloists (soprano, mezzo, tenor) which should perhaps be called a quartet as the bassoon takes the place of the bass singer as the fourth soloist in the section.    

Bass voices and low-pitched instruments intone the solemn “Rex tremendae majestatis” (“King of terrible majesty”), answered by an ethereal melody at “Salva me” (“Save me”).  The two contrasting ideas are combined in a powerful passage uniting all the performing forces; a quiet restatement of “Salva me” leads into “Recordare” (‟Remember”), a heart-rendingly beautiful duet for female voices.  The tenor soloist sings “Ingemisco” (‟I groan”) in a tone that is in turn tender and heroic; the bass’s “Confutatis maledictis” (‟When the Damned are Dismayed”) again links images of turmoil and salvation in a dramatically poignant way.  The lyrical conclusion of the bass aria is brusquely interrupted by another reprise of the movement’s opening with its formidable drumstrokes.

The “Dies irae” concludes with the exceptionally moving “Lacrymosa,” whose melody comes from a duet Verdi had composed for Don Carlos but discarded before the premiere.  The mezzo-soprano soloist begins the theme, gradually taken over by the entire orchestra and all the singers.  The movement ends with a memorable coda, including an unaccompanied passage for the four soloists and a final Amen with some highly unusual chord combinations.

The main melody of the “Offertory” is introduced by unaccompanied cellos and subsequently taken over by the soloists.  First the three lower voices sing together; the entrance of the soprano, on a long-held note and accompanied only by violins in their high register, depicts St. Michael showing the departed souls the light of eternity.  A new theme, developed in imitation and another idea, with strong rhythmic energy, express the image of the earthly community (“Abraham and his seed”).  With the middle section “Hostias et preces” (‟Sacrifices and prayers”) we are back to heavens, as it were.  Introduced by the tenor, this is a quiet prayer for eternal life, followed by an expanded return of the “Abraham” section.  The movement ends quietly, with a repeat of the plea for life, rising from the lowest register of the voices to the highest, and fading away with the sound of the muted strings.

The “Sanctus” is a fugue for double chorus, in which the texts “Sanctus,” “Osanna,” and “Benedictus” are all combined, contrary to traditional practice.  The vigorous contrapuntal activity stops in the final section of the movement, where the melody is presented in augmentation (twice as slowly as the first time) in preparation for a grandiose ending.

The beginning of the austere “Agnus Dei” alludes to (though does not actually quote) Gregorian chant with its unaccompanied single vocal line, sung by the soprano and mezzo soloists in parallel octaves.  The melody is repeated, without any changes, by the chorus.  The instruments of the orchestra join in during further repeats of the melody, alternating between soloists and chorus.  The most remarkable of these is the breath-taking quintet of two singers and three flutes, followed by a choral response and a short, highly emotional coda.

In “Lux aeterna,” the idea of eternal light is symbolized by the tremolos (fast repeated notes) of the violins in a high register and—later in the movement—by the piccolo’s striking staccato motif (one moving in well-separated fast notes). A warm melody, first introduced by the bass soloist, is associated with the words “Requiem aeternam (“eternal rest”).  Three of the four soloists (mezzo, tenor, and bass) come together in a harmonically intricate, unaccompanied trio to praise God for His mercy (quia pius es).    

The “Libera me” movement (the one Verdi had written for the aborted Messa per Rossini and later revised for the Manzoni Requiem) returns to the intense contrasts that characterized earlier movements, especially the first two.  This movement is for soprano solo and chorus.  Like the opening of the entire Requiem, the “Libera me” begins with some speech-like recitation, with nothing distracting from the dark words of the liturgy.  Yet the judging of the world by fire soon prompts an impassioned outburst, and the trembling of the terrified soul is rendered by a very unsettling motion in descending half-steps.  Since the text repeats the words “Dies irae” here, it was logical for Verdi, while revising the Requiem in 1874, to bring back, once more, the dramatic theme with the unforgettable drumstrokes which has already been heard several times.  The final evocation of the Judgment is followed by a varied repeat of the first movement (“Requiem aeternam”), scored here for a cappella voices (without instrumental accompaniment).  A brilliant and fiery fugue crowns the movement, but the last word, like the first, is barely whispered:  the works ends on an introspective note rather than with grand gestures.

The contrast between the extremes of high drama and personal lyricism pervades the entire Requiem, yet Verdi took great pains to ensure that his work had sufficient musical coherence.  Many of the work’s melodies are intimately related through the use of recurrent melodic and rhythmic elements; the literal repeats of earlier movements in the “Libera me” forge even stronger links among the different sections of the work.  That is why this monumental work seems so much of a piece:  from the opening “Requiem aeternam” to the final “Libera me” it forms a single, bold musical arch, with a vast array of emotions—indeed, a comprehensive vision of life and death—portrayed during the intervening hour and a half.