Acis and Galatea has come to be regarded as a charming artificiality now a little remote, like Love’s Labour’s Lost, though like that play it is full of life, as well as containing some of Handel’s finest tunes. The deprecation of the classic fairy tale had already begun with Dr. Johnson, for he, like the later Romantic realists, could not believe that myths and fables can live as truly as factual stories. The reigning critical world of the 19th century looked upon the fairy tale with disdain, not realizing that here was an artist who rebelled in the name of beauty against what they called “truth.”
The stylization the critics found naive and unconvincing was not the result of innocent play but of very definite conceptions. Boileau, in his L’Art poétique, took issue with realism in the eclogue, declaring it an exaggeration to let the stylized shepherds speak in the manner of real countrymen. Whether Handel knew the “legislator of Parnassus” is doubtful, but his literary friends did; Dryden had already translated the famous treatise, and Pope wrote a magnificent imitation of it, the Essay on Criticism , just about the time when Handel arrived in England. The composer’s friends transmitted to him the neo-classic precepts; his instinct and taste took care of the rest.
Others again made the mistake of declaring Acis and Galatea an oratorio. Written for stage performance, it was of course planned as a theatrical piece, and while its designations vary from serenata to masque and pastoral, it is past comprehension how it—and Semele!—could ever have been considered oratorios. The consequence of this was of course that Acis was made into a solemn piece, and all the airy gentleness, as well as the subtle humor of the giant Polyphemus stumbling and raging while singing awkwardly large intervals, is lost. Finally, the original orchestration must be restored before the work can be heard in its true pastoral charm.67
But though we recognize that Mozart’s and all the other late 18th century musicians’ views regarding the performance practice of the Handelian era were completely false, our performances, even those that actually attempt to follow at least the Händelgesellschaft score of Acis and Galatea, are false too. Conductors do not seem to know that when Handel specifies “flauto” he does not mean our flute but the recorder; when he wanted a flute he called for a “traverso.” Flutes, but especially the shrill piccolo, completely distort the aural picture envisioned by Handel. The accompaniment for “Hush, ye pretty warbling choir” must be assigned to three recorders, one of them the sopranino, Handel’s “flauto piccolo” (which originally may have been a flageolet). With so many recorder players available today there is no excuse for resorting to flutes in defiance of the composer’s intentions.
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IN THE CATALOGUE OF the music library at Cannons, drawn up August 23,1720, there appears under Handel’s name an item O the Pleasure o the Plain, “a masque for 5 voices and instruments in score” (Deutsch, p. 108). Thus we know that Acis and Galatea was extant and must have been performed before that date. Esther, or Haman and Mordecai as it may originally have been called, was also the product of this period when Handel disappeared from view, presumably shuttling between Cannons and the Duke of Chandos’s town house in London. It was, however, unquestionably written for and performed at Cannons, probably very soon after the date of the inventory of scores. Esther is one of those works without a resting place; it was so often manhandled for revivals that its proper shape cannot be determined. The “several new Songs,” added and subtracted at each revival (of which there were at least half a dozen), finally displaced most of the material in the original score.68 Actually this first and least significant of the English oratorios was popular in Handel’s lifetime, and we see it revived as late as 1757.
Esther was called a masque, but it has little resemblance to the masques of the period or to Handel’s own Acis and Galatea. It was also called at the first revival Esther, an Oratorio or Sacred Drama, but it could not originally have had any religious connotations. The libretto was based on Esther, a drama written by Racine in 1689, which followed classical Greek models in spite of the biblical characters; it was a didactic play, destined for Madame de Maintenon’s school for daughters of the impoverished nobility. Here we have an immediate clue to the surprising decline in quality from Acis and Galatea; Handel could not be moved or inspired by homilies, especially when his libretto was far removed from the original work of the great French dramatist. This libretto was nothing but an amateurish medley without dramatic motivation or continuity. The authorship is once more attributable to the Cannons round table, but it is far below the capabilities that this college of men of letters exhibited in Acis and Galatea. Arbuthnot is the author most frequently mentioned in the various printed librettos. Judging from the poor quality of the poems, this is probable; the Doctor, though a good writer of prose, was no poet. Pope is named as the author in one of the librettos, and a few of the verses show his stamp. Apparently the absence of an editor-in-chief of Gay’s stature resulted in a hopeless tangle.
Handel’s music is equally half-hearted and unorganized. The score has some fine numbers, especially the closing chorus, but more than half the work consists of borrowings, and these, especially the ones taken from the Brockes Passion, are so haphazardly adjusted that they do not fit into their new context. For this reason Esther would not detain us, in view of the many masterpieces that claim attention, except that its historical importance is enormous.
The combination of the pattern of classical Greek drama with the Old Testament as communicated to the Anglo-German composer by a French dramatist, the structure of the work, the employment of the chorus as the chief protagonist, together called into life and determined the future course of the English oratorio. We shall discuss all this as soon as we encounter these Cannons theatre pieces outside the Duke’s private residence; for the time being, and for twelve long years, they disappear. Handel all but forgot about them and returned to the battlefield of opera.
Bernard Gates, Master of the Children of the Chapel Royal, an early loyal Handelian, celebrated Handel’s birthday on February 23, 1732, by staging a performance of Esther at the Crown and Anchor Tavern. How Gates came into possession of the old Cannons masque is not clear, but he had a copy of the libretto printed, for the surprise birthday performance was followed by two others for the benefit of private music clubs. All three performances were highly successful, everyone was pleased, especially Handel—and everyone returned to his accustomed routine. The children of the chapel exchanged costumes for vestments, and Handel the unaccustomed spectator’s seat for the harpsichord bench in the opera pit. So far as he was concerned Esther could again slumber for another twelve years; he was busy with other things. Little did Gates realize what his friendly gesture was to set in motion—he deserves a statue as the foster father of the English oratorio.
There was someone in that audience who saw Esther in a different light, who indeed thought so highly of its possibilities that in some manner he got hold of the necessary performing material with a view to producing the masque. A few weeks later Handel was jolted when he read in the newspaper that Esther was to be given at York Buildings, not by the good Mr. Gates and his choirboys but by a person or persons who made a living from the theatre. The identity of the pirate is not known, but he must have been an experienced professional. The advertisement, naming Handel but not the producers of this “Oratorio or sacred Drama ... never before Perform’d in Publick,” was so equivocal that the public could not tell that this was an unauthorized invasion of the composer’s private domain. Handel’s reaction was instantaneous. In the absence of an enforceable copyright act he had only one recourse: to pull the rug out from under the rascals by making their Esther obsolete. The York Buildings performance took place on April 20, 1732; by May 2 Handel and Heidegger were ready to mount his new version in his own theatre, and for the first time we see the big trump card played: the public was informed that Handel’s version had many newly composed additions and would be presented by “a great Number of the best Voices and Instruments.” The skull a
nd crossbones had to be hauled down: the pirates had no Senesino or Strada, and Handel’s authority could not be challenged. The reworked score of Esther had indeed several additions, most of them borrowings from Handel’s early Italian works as well as from his anthems and other English works, but there was also some expansion of portions of the original version and of the orchestra.
The announcement of Handel’s punitive production carried a nota bene: “There will be no Action on the Stage, but the House will be fitted up in a decent Manner, for the Audience.” We are facing for the first time the religious issue that was to accompany the Handelian oratorio seemingly forever. Those who are accustomed to hearing Handel’s “sacred music” in reverent silence will be disappointed to learn that in ecclesiastical and conservative circles the “religious issue” was raised because of misgivings about the propriety of any musical and theatrical rendering of a biblical story. Had the Bishop of London the authority of the French Catholic bishops of Racine’s time, Handel’s first oratorio would certainly have been banned altogether, as were the original works of Racine from which the librettos for Esther and Athalia were drawn, instead of being merely deprived of staging. The oratorio was so new that most Englishmen did not even know how to spell it—“oratory,” “oratoria”—but the “sacred” label was attached to it from the very beginning, both in praise and in derision. Deutsch (p. 290) quotes a 1732 excerpt from the diary of Viscount Percival, who thought that Handel’s “oratory” was “composed in the Church style,” yet when reporting a performance of Esther (May 20, 1732) the Daily Courant described the event as “an Entertainment of Musick.” Then again in a pamphlet unearthed by Newman Flower a “Lord B ...” commenting on the pirated Esther, says “This alarmed H——l, and out he brings an Oratorio, or Religious Farce ... and put near 4000£ in his pocket.” We must bear in mind these conflicting views and sentiments when examining the entrance of the Bishop of London into Handel’s life.
Dr. Edmund Gibson, Bishop of London from 1720 to 1748, was a man of great learning and an ardent defender of the constitutional-political rights of the clergy; his Codex juris ecclesiastici Anglicani is a comprehensive treatise on the legal aspects of the Church of England. The Bishop may have been a dour teetotaler, a lawyer-cleric who loathed everything artistic and pleasant, but he was not the narrow-minded bigot the Handelian literature tries to make him. He knew about the slippery masquerades staged by Heidegger, which he denounced from the pulpit, and his indignation at the licentious plays was genuine. That Gibson, who had none of the moral inequity that so often accompanied the outward acts of piety, was an honest and fearless crusader is shown by his unhesitating attack on the questionable goings-on at the court, a denunciation that so enraged the King that he made his displeasure known, but to no avail. Dr. Gibson did not, however, have the faintest idea what he was attacking when his wrath descended on Esther; the theatre was the work of Satan, and masques were known to be frivolous and obscene. In addition this masque was “an Entertainment of Musick,” and had not Jeremy Collier said that music “throws a Man off his Guard, makes way for an ill Impression, and is most commodiously planted to do Mischief”? Puritanism is never far below the surface in England, and to think that this pair of theatre people, especially the unsavory Heidegger, wanted to expose Holy Writ to such ungodly purposes gravely disturbed the Bishop. He forbade a theatrical performance. The only evidence we have of this prohibition is Dr. Burney’s testimony, but there is no reason to doubt its accuracy. Thus was born the English oratorio, a pièce de circonstance compounded of homage, piracy, retaliation, and ecclesiastical fiat. We owe to Dr. Gibson the subsequent attitudes toward the oratorio, which thenceforth became frozen in a tableau vivant. Will it ever be unfrozen?
But Esther was a success in 1732, and Handel’s top opera team, headed by Senesino, Montagnana, Strada, and Mrs. Robinson, was called upon to repeat the performance four times within three weeks. The royal family attended, and Handel bought from the proceeds quite a few shares in the South Sea Company. Though somewhat puzzled by the novelty of an operalike work presented with the singers “in their own Habits” standing still on the stage, and though amused if not annoyed by the barbarous English of the Italian singers, the public liked Esther.
No sooner was the unethical competition routed than Handel was once more forced to retaliate in a similar situation. Now it was Acis and Galatea that was advertised for an unauthorized production, which took place on May 17. This time the perpetrators were known; they did not hide their identity, because while the means employed were, to say the least, questionable, their aim was not unworthy. The company that produced English works in the Little Theatre across from Handel’s opera house was headed by Thomas Arne, with John Frederick Lampe and Henry Carey rounding out the triumvirate. Henry Carey (1688-1743) was one of those minor composers who busied themselves valiantly with the English musical theatre, spoofing the Italian opera in farces, ballad operas, songs, and pamphlets. Originally a poet and playwright, he became a highly popular ballad-opera and song composer. John Frederick Lampe (1703-1751), another Saxon, born Johann Friedrich, had settled in England about 1725, playing the bassoon in theatre orchestras and composing. Unlike his more famous compatriot, he seems almost immediately to have joined the theatre party endeavoring to establish English opera “after the Italian manner.” Lampe, who subsequently became Thomas Augustine Arne’s brother-in-law, was a good man—Charles Wesley admired both his musical and his moral standards—and as a musician he had a flair for burlesque.69 So far we have been dealing with musicians, perhaps of minor talent and unable to carry out the lofty aims of English opera, but professionals who left behind some works that can still be performed. The business head of the corporation, Thomas Arne, father of the composer Thomas Augustine Arne (who was better known as “Dr. Arne”), was an upholsterer by trade. But besides the piratical instincts of the businessman, he must have had more than a few drops of theatrical blood in his veins—he sired not only Dr. Arne but also Susanna, the future Mrs. Cibber. The three compères ran the Little Theatre and, in the spirit of the times, got their material from wherever it could be got. But they were serious about their English theatre, and one cannot but admire their pathetic efforts, pluckily carried out with their modest talent pitted against some of the best musical brains of the Continent. In the cast of the unauthorized production we see not only the young Susanna Arne but, surprisingly, Gustavus Waltz, Handel’s “cook.”
By June 10 Handel was ready with his answer: a revised Acis and Galatea, to be sung “with several Additions,” and so on. It was an immediate success and was repeated seven times, causing the Little Theatre production to fold up after two performances. The price of the victory was heavy, though it did not seem so to Handel. As was usual in such cases, the hurried reworking did not result in improvement; as a matter of fact, Handel made an unholy mess of this graceful score. In order to bring to bear his heaviest weapons, the celebrated Italian singers of his troupe, he had the unfortunate idea of combining the English Acis and Galatea with Aci, Galatea, e Polifemo, the earlier Italian serenata, thus taking an unpardonable retrograde step to bilingual performances. The result of the uncritical mixing of the two versions, the haphazard transpositions and adaptations, created a fearful jumble in which all the grace of the English pastoral disappeared. (Chrysander’s edition only exacerbates matters, because his compilation matches Handel’s thoughtless ways.) For the Oxford performance in the following year Handel once more tortured the score, but at least this time it became somewhat more English, though the bilingual form prevailed for several years. Then in 1739, bereft of his Italian singers, Handel returned to a wholly English version, jettisoning the additions and coming much closer to the original version. The success of Acis and Galatea in 1732 was considerable, even though the work was maimed and grotesque in its linguistic discontinuity.
Having blundered onto something that pleased the public, Handel immediately sought to exploit the success of Esther. Unfortunat
ely, Deborah, the new oratorio presented on March 17, 1733, was a mere pasticcio, arranged to suit the requirements of another wretched libretto. Samuel Humphreys may have been a good secretary, but he was certainly no dramatist or man of letters. On the other hand, even more than did the subsequent clergymen-librettists, he took a piously sentimental religious attitude, ill becoming the poor—even repulsive—story from the Book of Judges. The cruel tale revolves around the treacherous murder committed by Jael, the wife of Heber the Kenite. She offered asylum to Sisera, the fugitive general, who was at peace with Heber; but when he fell into an exhausted sleep, she took a hammer and a tent pin, and driving the pin through the sleeping Sisera’s head, “rivetted the tyrant to the ground.” This was hailed as a fine patriotic and moral act by Deborah, the judge and priestess. The virtuous Chrysander was shocked by this dastardly act, and vented his moral indignation on the score by striking out Jael’s part altogether—odi profanum vulgus. But since there was in her part some good music that he wanted to salvage, with a remarkable scholarly sleight of hand this music was assigned—to Deborah. Thus was the core of the drama, as well as one of its main figures, eliminated; and not by a hack librettist, but by a scholar sworn to respect the truth.
Handel seems singularly uninterested in several of his figures. Jael, the murderess, is given mostly borrowings. When Handel did go to work on a portrayal of this wild woman, as in “Tyrant, now no more we dread thee,” one of the typical old operatic rage-and-revenge numbers but grimmer than in the operas, he was defeated by Chrysander, who confiscated the aria and awarded it to Deborah. In general Handel placed the many borrowings in their new surroundings ad hoc, not even bothering to adapt them, as was his normal custom. He was in fact so casual about this work that he did not even take the trouble to write out a complete autograph; the copyist was instructed what to lift out from other scores, then the new text was superimposed on the old music. But some of the new music is very good, and while Handel still did not recognize that he was wandering on new paths, the dramatic quality of the new contributions to Deborah is distinctly in advance of the rest. This quality is also present in those of the borrowings that he took pains to refurbish. Above all, there is a thrust in some of the choruses that is quite different from the ceremonial majesty of the anthem choruses. The alchemy of this new quality is mysterious, because the choruses did come from anthems and from the Brockes Passion, and yet they sound different—timing, that important factor in drama, now appears in the Handelian chorus. Handel becomes aware of an element that was all but missing in the opera of the period: the chorus as an acting protagonist. Both this and the following oratorio, Athalia, have a large number of choruses, many of them in eight parts, and they are alive, active, and dramatically mobile. Deborah also surprises with a new and rich orchestral disposition which calls for two organs and two harpsichords besides the regular complement of instruments.
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