Areopagus Volume XXXIII

Welcome one and all to the thirty third volume of the Areopagus. It's been terribly windy where I am - every day the windows are rattling and the clouds are rushing overhead. This endless howling drew me to think of The Lusiads, a 16th century epic poem by the Portuguese writer Luís Vaz de Camões, inspired by the Aeneid and told in the great Homeric tradition.

At one point the sailors of The Lusiads are caught in a storm. Here is how Camões describes it:

Terrifying. And it rather captures the storm I'm caught in now. But the show must go on!

I - Classical Music

Requiem III: Sequentia - Lacrimosa

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Joseph von Eybler, and Franz Xaver Süssmayr (1791)

View of Vienna from the Belvedere by Bernardo Bellotto (1761)

Today marks 267 years since Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born. I'll write about him a little more in the Historical Figure section, but I thought it was only appropriate to include some of his music in this week's Areopagus. And the Requiem is among Mozart's most famous pieces. Along with Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, his 40th symphony, and the Rondo alla Turca, it is one of those compositions which is inseparable from the idea of classical music, instantly recognisable and ever ubiquitous, whether online, on TV, in films, or adverts.

The story behind this piece is fascinating. Mozart, nearing the end of his life, was commissioned by the nobleman Count Walsegg to write a requiem mass for the one year anniversary of his wife's death. The Requiem is a Catholic service in memory of one who has died, and although there are some set texts there is no canonical music for such services. Hence why composers from Du Fay to Ockeghem to Dvořák have written their own, differing music for the requiem mass - a musical tradition dating back to the Middle Ages.

Mozart died before finishing his Requiem. Of the total eight sections he only fully completed the first, and the final four are entirely the work of other composers. But we aren't totally sure who wrote which parts. The confusion in part stems from the fact that Mozart had only been paid half his commission by Count Walsegg. In order to collect the remaining half and to earn as much as she possibly could from its wider publication, Mozart's widow Constanze had to give the impression that it was Mozart himself who had finished it. She was even scared that Count Walsegg would pass off the work as his own - as he had been known to do - and so she spread rumours that Mozart had composed the Requiem for his own funeral.

We know that she gave the unfinished manuscript and its accompanying notes to Joseph von Eybler. He continued the Requiem a little further but returned it to Constanze incomplete. It was Franz Xaver Süssmayr who, we believe, did most of the remaining work. Many more composers have been attributed with completing, wholly or partially, Mozart's final music.

In any case, what we know for sure is that this section of his requiem mass - the Lacrimosa - had only eight bars of music written at the time of Mozart's death. Both von Eybler and Süssmayr worked according to what Mozart had already done, either adapting and developing his musical ideas or working from his (alleged) notes on what he had planned to do. And the result is something truly special. The music is already astonishing before we consider that this Lacrimosa represents the last music ever written by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, perhaps even with the shadow of death hanging over him.

II - Historical Figure

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791) was born on 27th January in the Austrian city of Salzburg. His father Leopold was an accomplished musician and it seems that he had grand ambitions for his boy. At the age of five young Wolfgang wrote his first composition and two years later, in 1763, the Mozart family set out on a grand tour of Europe with their precociously talented son. They visited Munich, Augsburg, Stuttgart, Mannheim, Mainz, Frankfurt, Brussels, Paris, and London (where they remained for over a year) and arrived back in Salzburg in 1766, followed by a year-long stay in Vienna.

By the age of thirteen Mozart had already composed several piano concertos, symphonies, operas, and masses. He was a continent-wide sensation, having played in front of high-profile audiences at almost every major European city, showing off his virtuoso keyboard skills, improvisational talent, and natural musical genius. Crucially, he had also met with and learned from the continent's very best composers.

Mozart's status as a boy wonder was only enhanced when in 1770, on a family tour of Italy, he attended a Holy Week service at the Sistine Chapel in Rome and wrote down Gregorio Allegri's Miserere from memory. The Vatican had kept this extraordinary music a closely guarded secret for nearly two centuries, but Mozart's manuscript made its way around Europe and the secret was out. Yet Pope Clement XIV wasn't angry. He invited the teenage Mozart to a private papal audience and made him a Knight of the Order of the Golden Spur for his service to the Catholic faith.

The prodigally talented teenager soon became a young man, one with plenty of drive and ambition. As made clear in this letter to his father, young Wolfgang was unimpressed with contemporary music; a wrong he set out to right.

After ten years of near constant travel Mozart took up a position in the Salzburg Court in 1774. But he wasn't happy with this role and resigned from it three years later, at which point he took to the road again in search of a better employer. And so, despite being a star, Mozart's life didn't necessarily pan out as Leopold might have hoped. Whereas his esteemed contemporaries spent most of their careers as salaried composers in imperial, royal, or noble courts around Europe, Mozart worked largely as a free agent, either taking commissions or giving public performances. There were failures along the way, too. Nine relatively fruitless months were spent in Paris in 1779, as Mozart unsuccessfully sought out commissions to write opera.

Mozart moved to Vienna in 1781 and took the city by storm. He became acquainted with Joseph Haydn, among several other leading composers of the day, and forged a reputation as the greatest musician in the capital of European music. For most of that decade Mozart focussed on performance, not least because giving concerts was incredibly lucrative.

In 1786 he returned to his greatest passion - opera. Mozart hadn't written one since 1782. For every great opera you also need a great librettist - the one to write the lyrics, the narrative, and the production - and after years of searching in vain Mozart found in Lorenzo da Ponte a suitable companion. Don Giovanni, The Marriage of Figaro, and Così fan tutte were the product of their time together. Mozart's oldest ambition had been fulfilled; here were three masterful operas.

But fortune is ever fickle; by the close of the 1780s Mozart had fallen into crippling debt. He was forced to rely on friends for income and travelled abroad in search of wealthy patrons. Despite these financial troubles it was a time of creative ecstasy, and in 1791 Mozart's collaboration with the German librettist Emanuel Schikaneder - The Magic Flute - debuted. Things briefly looked up for the Mozart family, but the end was near.

During his short life Mozart wrote at least six hundred different pieces of music in every genre of the day. But what is more remarkable than his prolificacy is how Mozart seemingly perfected each of them. The world of Viennese Classical Music had found its defining figure, one who would exceed the context of his era and set a new standard for what music could achieve; with Mozart music became universal.

It has become a trope when discussing Mozart to say that he was a natural genius and it all came easily to him, that the music was already completed before he even wrote it down. Well, here's what the man himself had to say about that:

After conducting the debut of The Magic Flute in Vienna in September 1791, Mozart's already failing health worsened. He returned home and by late November was bedbound. And it was in these, the closing months of his life, that Mozart wrote the Requiem. Perhaps the gravity of the music has something to do with his own impending death. Those notes we hear were written just weeks, perhaps even days or hours, before his death at the age of thirty six. When somebody of such immense talent dies so young it is tempting to imagine what more they might have produced had they lived longer. But Mozart's legacy is so vast that he could hardly have done more for music. Or, as many would say, for humankind.

III - Painting

The Trinity

Andrei Rublev (early 15th century)

Andrei Rublev was regarded in his own time as a master and has since come to be regarded as one of - if not the - finest icon painters of Middle Ages. But, accustomed as we are to extreme realism and refined draughtsmanship in art, this painting might not grab our attention at first. And so to fully appreciate the Trinity it may require some effort.

We must imagine ourselves in Medieval Russia - a time very different to our own. No electricity and no cars, phones, or computers. It was an age of social unrest, invasion, pestilence, famine, and war. Picture, among a thousand low-lying wooden houses or wattle-and-daub huts, a towering cathedral made of stone and capped with domes of gold, its whitewashed walls glittering in the sun. And then, inside, a vast chamber illuminated only by candles, the vaulted ceiling above almost lost in shadow. And, peering through the half-light, the solemn faces of a thousand icons painted in dark gold and celestial blue - among them, implacable and hallowed, the three angels of the Trinity.

The great Japanese writer Junichiro Tanizaki expressed the problem of electric lighting better than most in his wonderful 1977 essay In Praise of Shadows. Technology is a boon for our quality of life, but with progress there is also loss. He saw the delicate, shrouded, subtle forms of his native Japanese architecture and art obliterated by searing light bulbs. Similarly, our impression of Orthodox icons is impeded by the mercilessness of electric lighting, for it banishes by its brightness the elegance and mystery of shadow and glimmer.

These angels, with their elongated forms, have a spectacular graveness about them which no amount of "realism" can ever quite capture. Nobody ever supposed that this was how people "actually" looked; nor are they even humans, but angels. There's a certain familiarity here, but with so much of the real world's detail stripped away and its appearance subtly modified, what remains is altogether ethereal. The furniture and perhaps even the angels' wings are rather crude, but it is in their bowed heads and dignified, reflective faces that the Trinity comes alive. Something about their interlocking gazes, their inscrutable expressions, and their careful balance is utterly transfixing.

The Trinity is one of only two paintings definitively attributed to Andrei Rublev, and even this one has been battered about down the years, partially and then fully restored to varying degrees of success. What we see now is perhaps a pale imitation of the original, but even through centuries of damage and deterioration the purity and weightiness of Rublev's vision endures.

It was once covered by a riza. This was an ornamental icon cover, usually made of gold or silver and encrusted with jewels, used to protect these holy works of art. We still have the 17th century riza made for Rublev's Trinity during the reign of Boris Godunov. Its splendour should tell you something about the reverence with which Orthodox icons are treated. And that only their faces, hands, and feet showed through the riza tells us which parts of the painting were most important. For such sacred art, then, realism seems totally inappropriate.

IV - Architectural Masterpiece

Architecture isn't just about ancient temples, great cathedrals, and modern marvels. Every house, library, school, bridge, theatre, place of worship, car park, skyscraper, and town hall is also architecture. Many of them are beautiful, charming, and inventive. And it is in the ordinary buildings, so to speak, that great architecture truly reveals itself. For these are the ones we live and work in every day. Where else does architecture matter quite so much? And, besides, many genuine masterpieces are hidden or hardly known at all. They deserve recognition.

So I'm asking you to send me photographs of your favourite architecture, whether in your hometown or somewhere you've visited. There are no rules here. If you find something of value in a building - however great or small, new or old - then it's worth sharing. I'll include your submissions in next week's Areopagus.

V - Rhetoric

Inventio

The word "rhetoric" has come to be defined rather narrowly in the 21st century. Its connotations are almost entirely negative, usually implying either angry bluster or manipulative, florid, dishonest language. Even though the Greeks and Romans were well aware of that kind of rhetoric - Plato himself thought all public speeches were suspect - the word once had a far broader definition.

Rhetoric in the classical world had Five Canons - the chronological stages of composing a speech, whether to be published as a written work or spoken:

1. Inventio
2. Disposito
3. Elocutio
4. Memoria
5. Actio

The first of these was regarded as the most important, for it was here that contents of one's speech were decided. But what is inventio? It's usually translated as "invention", for obvious reasons, but the Latin word more accurately translates to finding. And we must remember that rhetoric was Greek before it became Roman, and the Greeks called this stage heuresis. This word means discovery.

Now we're on to something. Where might we discover ideas and arguments? Usually, the rhetoricians argued, within ourselves. The arguments and ideas, rather than being created out of thin air, are lying in wait for us. And so inventio is really the ability to find, whether at short notice or in advance, relevant and appropriate material for the matter at hand. Heuresis then, or inventio as the Romans would have it, is about sifting through one's memories, knowledge, experiences, and ideas to find what is most appropriate, effective, and useful.

As the English scholar and scientist Francis Bacon wrote in his 1605 treatise The Advancement of Learning:

And so inventio shines a light on rhetoric's place in the classical world. It wasn't just about carefully preparing speeches or manipulating one's audience; it was about being able to think clearly, to reason effectively, and to speak well. Nor was this purely academic - rhetorical study was merely the prelude to its use in the real world. As it is written in the Rhetorica ad Herennium:

VI - Writing

Wasted Days

Do you ever feel like you don't have enough time to write? Do you end up getting distracted (by emails, gossip, social media, unimportant business) and feeling like you've wasted a day instead of doing something much more meaningful?

If you understand this feeling then it may be some comfort to know that it isn't new. Here is a remarkably relatable letter written by Pliny the Younger, a Roman lawyer, to his friend in about 100 AD. It turns out that the problems of modern life aren't always so modern as we think.

Although the legacy of the ancient world is largely one of great poetry and literature, art and statuary and philosophy, none of them can quite bring Antiquity to life like their letters. Those of Pliny the Younger are a treasure of deeply personal reflections on life in Ancient Rome. And, reading them, we find that our ancestors weren't so different to us.

VII - The Seventh Plinth

High Noon

I'm inclined to think that cinema is the most significant artistic innovation of the last hundred years. It seems to draw together elements of painting, sculpture, poetry, theatre, literature, music, and opera into a single, unified work of art. It was probably watching the 1952 classic Western High Noon which first gave me this inclination; I was only young and it left a very deep impression.

The film begins at 10:40am on a Sunday morning, as retiring sheriff Will Kane and his Quaker wife Amy have just been married. It ends an hour and half later, shortly after midday. This story is told in real time.

What struck me most about the film was that, on the surface, it's incredibly entertaining. High Noon has got a great plot and compelling drama; there are memorable lines, excellent music, plenty of excitement, and splendid acting. Gary Cooper's performance is legendary; hardly ever will you see an actor hold such presence on the silver screen. Every line on his weatherbeaten face conveys the sort of weighty presence and psychological depth you might expect of a Caravaggio masterpiece. Grace Kelly as Amy Kane is his perfect foil and they are supported by a supremely talented cast whose every line counts.

Beneath the entertainment, however, lies an ocean of thematic complexity. Difficult ethical questions are posed in High Noon. The drama isn't epic at all - it's actually rather small in scale. But where else than in ordinary choices do real moral problems present themselves? It is gripping, thought-provoking, and challenging.

The cinematography is pristine and highly focussed. Every moment of the film matters and the result is an assembly of unforgettable images, not least the one I've included here. High Noon is also rich with subtle symbolism worthy of any great painting. You can watch it a dozen times and continue to notice new details.

I don't wish to spoil the plot of High Noon for anybody who hasn't seen it, and so I'll leave my rather vague analysis there. I suppose this is something of a film recommendation. If you do watch it, please let me know what you think.

Question of the Week

Last week's question to test your critical thinking was:

Why study history?

Adrien argued that history teaches us the importance of choice:

While Roraig F explored the pitfalls of studying history and the necessary caution with which it must be approached:

Some of the best answers came from a high school history teacher who asked his students this question. I was rather struck by Brice's remark:

While Carmella's answer warrants sharing in full:

And here's what Andrew wrote:

To end, I rather liked this part of Jack's answer:

And for this week's question, riffing on the theme of Mozart's birthday:

Why does music matter?

And that's all

The wind is still howling and rain has started to fall; this is a real winter storm. But I'm minded to think of the final line from Percy Shelley's 1820 poem Ode to the West Wind:

Perhaps, then, warmer climes aren't so far away. I certainly hope so. Fare thee well!

Yours,

​

​