By February 1731, Handel was again riding the crest of success with his new opera, Poro. Fashioned from Metastasio’s Alessandro nell’Indie, the libretto offered a historical subject that was very acceptable as a theatrical story, and in it Senesino rose to new heights of artistic triumph. The aristocracy, headed by the royal family, returned to the Haymarket Theatre, lavishing praise on Handel and his troupe, and the demand for the “songs” from Poro was such that Walsh could not print his editions fast enough.
Having reassembled a first-class cast, Handel had returned to the heroic style, though Poro is palpably different from the heroic operas of the first Academy. Everything in the new opera is elegant and sophisticated, the harmony very advanced, and in general the music is almost unfailingly imaginative and full of delectable surprises. But the new, elegant, and sophisticated Handel had not lost his ability to characterize and to overwhelm with the sensuous beauty of his melodies. Cleofide’s dirge, “Se ciel mi divide,” is almost too beautiful for a sad situation, while Gandarte’s aria, “Si viver non poss’io,” was considered by Burney the finest of Handel’s sicilianas. Another wondrous pastoral is Erissena’s “Son confusa pastorella,” and equally magnificent is the duet, “Caro amico complesso,” sung by Poro and Cleofide. One notices Handel’s increased interest in ensembles, no doubt the result of his Italian journey. He even combines two arias already sung into a duet. Poro was probably one of the librettos brought back from Italy and arranged in London. Unfortunately the story suffers from the overuse of magnanimity as a device to resolve dramatic situations. The drama does mount to a considerable height in the third act, until Alexander has another fit of magnanimity which robs the dénouement of its strength.
Sixteen performances testify to Poro’s popularity. In March Rodelinda was revived and “took much,” followed in April by another proven success, Rinaldo, repeated seven times. By the time the theatre was forced to close prematurely because of the unseasonable heat, Italian opera had been re-established in its lucrative eminence; even Heidegger was convinced that Handel could make the English public eat out of his hand.
The triumph was achieved in the midst of personal grief. The news of his aged mother’s death reached Handel when he was diligently working on Poro. Now his last tie with the land of his origin was severed, for while Handel always thought fondly of his niece he did not really know her. He continued to maintain a friendly correspondence with his erstwhile brother-in-law, Michaelsen, now a political personality of some standing, but Michaelsen, whom he had met only once, had remarried and was raising a new family. Handel was now alone. While he had seen little of his mother since his eighteenth year, his devotion to her was deep, and her spirit seems to have hovered over him wherever he was. The only living mementos of his German past were the beloved Queen Caroline and his faithful Johann Christoph Schmidt, who by this time had become an English subject, John Christopher Smith.
Throughout 1731 Handel kept to himself and did not compose any new operas. The season opened in November with Tamerlano and Poro; on January 15, 1732, Ezio, composed on a drastically altered libretto by Metastasio, was produced. The opera failed, though the new basso, Antonio Montagnana, engaged purely on reputation, proved to be a great success. He saved Ezio for at least a few performances by his excellent singing. Handel must have appreciated this second Boschi, because some of the best numbers in the opera are the bass arias. This cold reception was undeserved; Ezio does start slowly, even unpromisingly, but after a while Handel’s imagination catches fire and soon the drama glows. The contrast between father and daughter is remarkably well drawn. Fulvia is gentle and sweet when she begs her father in her fine aria “Caro padre” not to force her into intrigue. Massimo, the father, is one of Handel’s raging bassos, a compelling figure whose “I nocchier che si figura” is a powerful piece. But Massimo can be insinuating, like Iago, and Handel gives him some remarkable music whose pastoral charm and exquisite workmanship belie his ugly intentions. Both women, Fulvia and Onoria, are well characterized, and Handel is in his element when he develops their gradually rising jealousy. Ezio, though a castrato part, can also reach considerable eloquence, as when he sings “Ecco alle mie catene,” a sad siciliana, before he is thrown into the dungeon. At the end, Fulvia, deeply hurt, repels her treacherous father who in turn expresses unexpected paternal love. Here there is real drama, and Handel makes the most of it; Fulvia’s final scene is powerful, as this opera grows from rather tame beginnings to truly tragic accents. The happy ending dampens it a little, but it is preceded by a most vivid “mob” scene that would do honor to any grand opera.
Undaunted by this failure, Handel immediately countered with Sosarme, a highly involved story of dynastic intrigue, but dramatically tight. Sosarme is composed with a wide brush, there is no time for undue finesse in the accompaniments—these are not tender people—therefore the composer abstained from filigree work, his orchestra sounding more nearly like a pre-Classic symphony ensemble. The texture is far more homophonic than is customary with Handel; even the duets are more harmonic than linear. The music is somewhat uneven, but Erenice, one of Handel’s grandes dames, is as admirably characterized as her music is strong, and there are many fine pieces as well as conventional ones. The chorus at the end is strikingly original; this is not a solo-ensemble but a real chorus.
Between Sosarme and Orlando, the next opera—produced in January 1733—there was a significant interlude that saw the first stirrings of pastoral and oratorio since the Cannons days. (We shall discuss these in the following chapter.) Handel was aroused by the incredible larceny whereby his Acis and Galatea was produced by a rival, and he retaliated with his own production of the reworked pastoral. At the same time Haman and Mordecai, a masque also from the Cannons days, was refurbished into Esther, Handel’s first English oratorio. Nevertheless, his interest in opera still dominated all his activities. The interlude between operas was short and was nothing but an interlude; Handel neither recognized the significance of the warm reception of the English works nor was he inclined to give up opera for anything else. As if to take revenge on the “English party” and show the faint-hearted, among them Heidegger, that he did not propose to retire under fire, Handel produced one of his greatest operas, Orlando. The success was decisive; night after night the opera ran, Senesino and Strada glowing and triumphing with some of the finest arias they had ever sung.
Orlando is a Baroque opera of the first water, though one that goes back to the older Venetian grand music drama calling for the most elaborate scenic and theatrical effects. A large and well-equipped opera house could restore it to life with stunning effect. If Sosarme showed some pre-Classic and galant elements—it has some fine dance arias—Orlando is a romantic opera, a fairy-tale opera. The libretto, of uncertain origin, is altogether un-Metastasian, and although at times somewhat gauche, it is still a very good book. The Ariosto operas show the Italian librettists’ healthy instincts and their knowledge of what happens to a libretto when music clothes the words. Popular as it was, Ariosto’s great epic is a difficult source for opera. The great Italian poet, a typical late Renaissance figure, leaves the medieval world of chivalry far behind him and handles his subject with a certain amused superiority that is half mocking. What the librettists took from him were the colorful episodes that made excellent opera stories; they carefully avoided the mocking.
Because Orlando is a fairy opera and because of the sumptuous and solemn bass part of Zoroastro, comparisons with The Magic Flute have been virtually inevitable. After a fine overture, Handel presents this noble magician-priest, who immediately launches into a characteristically mystery-laden aria, “Gieroglifici eterni,” soon followed by another great aria, “Lascia amor.” From the warning to Orlando to mend his lascivious ways and return to heroic deeds, the change to a pastoral tone is as remarkable as the music that goes with it. Dorinda, the shepherdess, is not the traditional Arcadian ingénue; she is wonderful in her unabashed propensity for the company of men, the femal
e of the species, untrammelled by any complexes, and her love-making is no sham formality; this is an ardent, almost violent act. The shepherdess is singing of the beauties of pastoral life when Orlando enters carrying Angelica, whom he has just saved from a monster. Angelica finds herself in a delicate situation: she loves Medoro, but this gallant rescuer of hers is obviously smitten with her. Dorinda also has her not so innocent eye on Medoro but her love remains unrequited. The difficulties are overcome for the nonce, and with very fine music, as Dorinda magnanimously helps the lovers, Medoro and Angelica, to escape. Dorinda’s arias, especially “O care paroletti,” in the siciliana manner, are delightful, but there is a subtle quality in the accompagnato that indicates that she has some ideas of her own not expressed in the song. Angelica is a different woman, passionate and purposeful though also very feminine. She can get rid of Orlando and can make Medoro feel that he is lucky to be favored by her, but she can also be genuinely distressed when Medoro is wounded. A remarkably fine trio ends the act.
Orlando, having learned of the true state of affairs, is ready to act, but Zoroastro robs him of his senses. The pastoral cooing of Dorinda, Medoro, and Angelica is an absolute delight; each one of them sings a magnificent song that is a little idyll in itself. With Zoroastro’s and Orlando’s ensuing numbers everything changes; Handel unburdens himself of dramatic music such as even he seldom equalled. The sorcerer is dignified, noble, and above the fray, like—well, like his namesake, Sarastro, but Orlando is indeed furioso; his long arioso is a masterful piece of dramatic expressiveness. The compound scene is rich in rhythmic variety; it is here that Handel employs the famous passage in 5/8, and the final gavotte is an extraordinarily telling bit of music. Composed as a passacaglia, its tone is in such contrast to the dance rhythm that it becomes fearsome.
In the third act the bewitched Orlando is singing of Dorinda’s charms, but with the appearance of Angelica and Medoro his fury returns and Angelica is saved only by the intervention of Zoroastro, who puts the raging hero to sleep. Upon awakening, Orlando’s senses return, and, renouncing the foibles of love, he congratulates the lovers and resumes the life of a warrior. The mandatory happy ending does not hurt the drama, because the fairy-tale atmosphere is safeguarded everywhere. Handel’s ability to render in music the state of mind of a demented person is astonishing; the music is never permitted to rest, rhythm and meter are in constant disequilibrium, the da capos are unpredictable, and the contrast of the dramatic with the pastoral element very sharp. Not the least remarkable dramatic touch is the peace and quiet that return to the music when Orlando regains his mind. The quintet finale constitutes a fitting ending to a remarkable work that is also noteworthy because it begins to show more subtle Purcellian influences. In this scintillating score Handel is incessantly and joyfully aware of visual and aural and tactile beauty, of warm, solid, spontaneous human beings, of the swift and gradual interaction of character with character.
Orlando was very successful but did not equal in popular success such English works as Acis and Galatea and Esther; even Handel could not close his eyes to this demonstrable fact (which was probably emphasized by Heidegger), and a second interlude from opera was therefore decided upon. Samuel Humphreys, who was associated with the Academy as second, or English, secretary to the company and who seems to have been a biblical librettist of sorts in Esther, was asked to prepare a libretto for an oratorio. Deborah was produced on March 17, 1733. The public did not like anything about it. Handel raised the admission fees, xenophobia was fanned by the King’s ever-lengthening sojourns in Hanover, and though Londoners proved again and again that they liked Handel and were ready to rally around him, he once more found himself caught in the crossfire of political and national sensibilities. As if to revive old spectres, Bononcini also reappeared on the London operatic scene in 1732, producing—in the Haymarket Theatre!—a pastoral play, undoubtedly inspired by the reception of Acis and Galatea. To this day the chroniclers cannot agree whether it was magnanimity or folly, or perhaps Heidegger’s speculative wire-pulling, that caused Handel to permit Bononcini’s pastoral to be produced in his own theatre. Perhaps we do not credit Handel with the astuteness he showed on so many occasions, nor with that lack of vindictiveness that was such an engaging trait in his character. There was nothing to be feared from Bononcini; he had shot his bolt and could no longer challenge Handel. Not so the formidable operatic rivals who now appeared, for the renewed theatrical war that ensued was far more bitter than in the days of the first Royal Academy of Music; this time people really wanted to draw blood.
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HANDEL HAD TO face the jealousy sparked by his success and the dislike for the German dynasty and everything connected with it, including himself, the King’s favorite; in addition, there were other things about the composer that made him an unusual and baffling person. His music, though observing most of the conventions of opera, violated the chief convention: easy accessibility. He could throw together an opera in two weeks, but as a rule his scores were prepared with care and refinement, the orchestra always exquisite and sophisticated, the texture far more polyphonic than was good for the audience. There were many complaints about the “noise” this orchestra made, thereby detracting from the singing. Opera audiences in 18th-century London—as too often in 20th-century New York—were interested in singers and singing, not in the music itself. Handel alienated many singers by his uncompromising standards, and his personal conduct was imperious and gruff; he was not a servant either to the singers or to the public. Thus, at the proper moment, a rival establishment had no difficulty in seducing his company to desert. Goupy, the designer of a number of Handel’s operatic sets for the Academy, circulated cartoons that became famous all over London. Handel with the face of a pig, legs as thick as stovepipes, was seated before the organ on a wine barrel. All around him were bottles, poultry, joints of meat, alluding to his well-known gargantuan appetite, while a cannon firing in the background referred to the noise his music made. It was a devastating caricature and its effects were devastating.
The country’s dislike of the dynasty was exacerbated by the unseemly hostility between the King and the Prince of Wales. There had been little love lost between George I and his Prince of Wales, but their discord was as nothing compared to the antagonism between George II and his son Frederick, who now held that title. Frederick was banished from court, his allowance was cut, and he was addressed in the crudest of terms. He in turn seized every opportunity to annoy and insult the King. The gentle Queen, staunchly supporting her worthless husband out of loyalty to tradition, went so far as to refuse to see her son when she was dying. The enmity felt towards the father was once more transferred to the King’s favorite musician, but while the future George II had previously never hurt Handel and while after his father’s death he was to become a firm Handelian, Frederick selected Handel as the prime target for his malevolence. The anti-Walpole faction immediately recognized the usefulness of this situation; both the Prince and Handel were considered excellent tools for political purposes. Epigrams, letters, and pamphlets excoriating Handel were circulated, some of them amusing but many scurrilous and even hateful, but part of the scheme was a convenient façade for allegorical attacks on Walpole. Since the leader in these attacks was the Craftsman, a radical political journal opposed to Walpole, the political intent was clear.
It was the Prince who conceived the idea of forming a rival opera society to unseat Handel; the “Opera of the Nobility” was presently established with the concurrence of such grandees as the Duke of Marlborough. How politics can sway friendship is shown by the fact that five of the directors of the first Royal Academy of Music, among them Handel’s old friend and patron Burlington, joined Frederick’s anti-Handel opera society. To his credit (or was he omitted?) Chandos did not join the conspiracy. The first meeting of the directors of the Opera of the Nobility was called by Frederick for June 15, 1733. They decided to lease the Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theatre, vacated by Rich when he moved
to his new Covent Garden Theatre at the end of 1732. But the most important item on the agenda was a plan to persuade Handel’s singers to desert him. It seems that Senesino was in touch with the Prince’s men almost from the inception of the plot.
The 1733 season at the Haymarket Theatre had continued with revivals of Tolorneo and Floridante, with the interval devoted to oratorio in English: Deborah in March and Esther in April. The prices of the tickets were raised for the first night of Deborah but thereafter had to be dropped to normal. The royal family attended several performances of the oratorios. It was during these performances that Handel inaugurated his custom of playing the organ between the acts, which eventually attracted as many music lovers as did the oratorios themselves. The fourth season of the second Academy closed on June 9, rather surprisingly with a production of Bononcini’s Griselda, revived May 22. Immediately upon the release from their season’s contract, the singers left Handel en masse to join the new company; only Strada remained. The new association lost no time, and, since it had an almost full company, it immediately summoned the organizing committee to prepare the fall season.
The situation was catastrophic, and Handel’s next move seems puzzling: he suddenly took his tattered company to Oxford for a week’s stand. He still had a top performer, Strada, but for a bass we read that he had to promote his cook, Gustavus Waltz, from the kitchen to the stage. Much has been made of this “desperate” move, but Handel’s single, and perhaps facetious, reference to Waltz as “my cook” is the only evidence to support it. It is possible, of course, that the hospitable and ever helpful Handel offered a “position” to Waltz, a fellow German expatriate, unemployed for the moment. Waltz, though musically trained, was more of an actor than a singer and certainly no proper replacement for Montagnana. Still, he sang a number of Handel’s important bass roles to the composer’s apparent satisfaction. The cast was rounded out by Mrs. Wright, soprano; Philip Rocchetti, tenor (who had sung earlier in Acis and Galatea); Thomas Salway, a popular tenor; and Walter Powell, countertenor, a local Oxonian worthy who joined the company for the duration of its visit. Thus all Handel’s singers, with the exception of Strada, were English.60
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