Emboldened by his success, Handel overestimated the attraction of his new stageless English works; he doubled the price of admission for Deborah. The move was resented, alienating a good many patrons, and the audience was scant. As we have related above, this rather bold attempt at exacting money from the regular opera subscribers, whose season tickets were suspended for the occasion, coincided with unpopular measures taken by the Walpole government, the founding of the Opera of the Nobility, and with anti-dynastic and anti-German sentiments, all of which reflected on the King’s German-born favorite musician. The situation was not helped by this rather grasping move for “quick money.”
Esther and Deborah, though the latter after its initial misfortune became popular during Handel’s lifetime, are to us little more than historical documents, but as such their importance is so great that we must examine them closely before we follow Handel to Oxford to witness the first performance of Athalia. The step Handel made from Deborah to Athalia would be an incomprehensible vaulting over time and matter—only four months separate the two oratorios—were it not for a dramatic idea that henceforth was to rule the great masterpieces and that had already guided Handel in Esther: the role assigned to the chorus. This chorus is no longer the turba of the Passions but the acting and active choros of the Greek drama of antiquity. The great figure who caused this new dramatic concept to take root in Handel’s art was Racine.
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RACINE WAS perhaps the only real poet in a French world distinguished by rhetoric and the stage, philosophy and literature, albeit often noble rhetoric and fine theatre, profound philosophy and spirited literature. His success, and his recognition by the supreme lawgiver, Boileau, was due to the fact that the classicizing French spirit found in him such a pliable representative. The severe law of the unities appeared to Racine natural, and not even his surprisingly restricted vocabulary, a mere fraction of Shakespeare’s, could stifle his poetic force. That the severely constricted poetry burns through the cold and conventional forms accounts for the wizardry and attraction of Racine’s art. He imitates Euripides, and though the erstwhile disciple of Port Royal did not dare openly and faithfully to carry the passions of antiquity onto the stage, but dressed them in the garments of the galanterie of the age, in the modish forms of the love intrigues of the French court, nevertheless the mysterious fluid of eroticism filters through the conventional scenes. It breaks through the elegant words of the bewigged and powdered figures, through the cadence of the verses, through the music of the Greek names: La fille de Minos et de Pasiphaé ...
In these sculptured pieces, in these orderly verses, behind these conventional words, there are secret ideas, for with Racine everything is love; like Handel he is in his element when sketching women. This is not the only trait they have in common. Racine, like Handel, admires matriarchs —Andromache, Clytemnestra; he is fond of depicting jealousy, in which Handel also excelled; both of them drew an infinite variety of female characterizations, from virginal tenderness to murderous passion. Boileau divined in this supposedly polished classicist “plusieurs passions dangereuses,” and Lafontaine remarked that “il aimait extrèmement les jardins, les fleurs, les ombrages”—all Handelian traits. But what was most congenial to Handel in Racine’s work was the purely internal tragedy: suffering, hesitation, love, jealousy, bravery, and renunciation. The action arises from the characters in spite of external events.
Racine’s concept of drama, as expressed in his various prefaces, can be summarized as the representation and characterization of human beings, showing how they are driven by their passions, in a simple action, preferably in a far-removed age and country. This analysis of character as the consequence of an already formed situation comes from Greek tragedy, especially from Euripides, though the Senecan concept of the Pléiade is not absent. Racine knew Greek and read Attic tragedy in the original; his copy of Euripides is covered with annotations. His disposition of the chorus was decisive for the future of the oratorio.
It is of importance to note that Racine, who had renounced the mundane vanities of the stage and retired to his Jansenist Christianity, came out of retirement to write the two biblical tragedies, Esther (1689) and Athalie (1691), for Madame de Maintenon’s establishment at Saint-Cyr. Though strict in matters of religion, this was not a convent but a school. Madame de Maintenon’s instructions to Racine were positive: she asked him to provide something for the girl actresses that had a serious moral point presented in a historical setting, and that was so written as to make possible a musical rendition. She further specified that what today we would call “love interest” must not exceed settled conjugal affection. It was thus that this life-long devotee of dramas on classical subjects turned to the Old Testament, selecting stories of women who were more heroic than amorous.
Neither Racine nor his Esther was unknown in England when Handel decided to compose Haman and Mordecai. The French influence on Dryden and his contemporaries was pronounced and reached well into the 18th century; many English playwrights were adaptors and translators from the French. French tragedy set the example, though the comic genre in general remained more attached to the national soil. Several of Racine’s plays, among them Esther and Athalie, were known in English versions, both in verse and in prose translations. One would think that if Racine’s plays reached England, the music attached to them would have accompanied them—the scores were available in printed editions. Yet there does not seem to be any indication that Handel knew this music. This is puzzling, because both Esther and Athalie were planned to be furnished with music; they were in fact quasi librettos.
Racine’s composer was Jean Baptiste Moreau (1656-1733), whose fame rests on this fact as Quinault’s rests on the fact that he was Lully’s librettist. Moreau went from the choirmaster’s post at the Cathedral in Dijon to Paris, eventually becoming Madame de Maintenon’s music master at Saint-Cyr. There is an interesting list of works he composed there: Jonathas, Jephté, Judith, Absalon, Décora. Are we on the trail of an Old Testament oratorio composer—in Catholic France? The dates will show that with the exception of Jonathas, all were composed after Esther, that is, after Racine had set the pattern. Moreau’s first real success was with the performance of Esther in 1689, Racine himself directing it in the King’s presence. Esther was performed as a stage work, with sumptuous costumes lent by the King from the court ballet and with male singers from the court chapel to sing the lower parts. Moreau was a good composer and a very good teacher (among his pupils: Montéclair, Cléram-bault, and d’Andrieu); his music for both Esther and Athalie is available and worth studying.70
Though there is no demonstrable link between Handel and Moreau, we have touched upon the French composer not only because his music was an essential part of Racine’s final dramatic works, but also because there is a fascinating parallel between the ways in which biblical dramas were received in France and in England. The French clergy, like the Bishop of London, frowned upon Esther and forbade performances beyond the strictly private precincts of Saint-Cyr. Puritanism was not missing in France either. Bossuet sternly denounced the theatre in general (quoting the Church Fathers) and the “impieties” of Molière in particular. If it had not been for Madame de Maintenon’s great influence, these “sacred plays” would have been altogether suppressed. And then what do we see? Athalie was not only restricted to Saint-Cyr but its performance in 1691 was granted only upon assurance that all theatrical attributes, such as decor and costumes, would be avoided—the drama became oratorio in exactly the same manner as in England. Athalie did not reach the Comédie Française for a quarter of a century and Esther not until 1720. The parallel with Handel’s fate continues, for while the contemporary clergy scented blasphemy, Charles Bordes, a modern critic and editor, like his English and German colleagues went to the other extreme. He saw Moreau’s choruses “overflowing with that spirit of the love of charity and simplicity which is the essential trait of Christian lyricism.”
Now let us examine this Christian
lyricism. The principal character of Athalie is again one of those amazons of the Old Testament who do not shrink from bloodshed. This Queen of Judah was a particularly ferocious female, which is perhaps understandable since she was the daughter of Jezebel, who specialized in killing prophets. Athalia, in her turn, exterminated her own son’s children to clear her path to the throne and died as violently as her mother. That is, in Racine‘s—and the Bible’s—version, for to the pusillanimous Humphreys this was strong meat. He considerably weakened the dénouement by changing Racine’s catastrophic and logical ending. Athalia is not killed, she is merely deposed and retired, but her magnificently defiant exit aria should have led to the fullness of tragedy; a creature like that cannot live as a pensionnaire.
Humphreys was again at work with his dramatically unseeing eyes and his gauche pen, cutting, shifting, and in general trying to reduce Racine to Sunday sermon proportions, which was bad enough, but he had the temerity to add some poetic creations of his own. The worst feature of the English libretto—a trade mark of the philistine—is the removal of the motivations, which in this case was especially regrettable. Racine was already under a certain handicap when he had to treat carnal love in a manner fit for an innocent sorority of damsels, and therefore he very carefully developed other motifs. Fortunately, this compact and admirably constructed drama, by many considered Racine’s greatest, could not be completely emasculated, and its essence reached Handel; Humphreys retained all the important characters as well as the dramatic role of the chorus. Handel found this not only sufficient but bountiful, and now that the didactic element was largely absent, he could deal with human characters.71
Athalia, a towering matriarch, powerful, violent, and unyielding, yet, with all her grimness, here a tragic figure, is completely before us in her first recitative. She is like Medea in Cherubini’s opera, a tremendously passionate creature, the first of Handel’s fully formed, overwhelming dramatic personalities. This woman no longer has any connections with the Bible, she is straight out of Euripides—her dream is pure Greek tragedy. Josabeth is a devoted mother and a tender wife, but a woman not without courage. Joad is not the usual implacable high priest but one with a heart in which loyalty and masculine force unite with compassion. It is too bad that this masculine force must be conveyed through an alto or countertenor. (In one of the subsequent revivals Handel actually lowered the part to a bass.) Joas, true to his role, is an innocent child, and Abner a staunchly honest soldier, while Mathan is the traditional intrigant. What was still somewhat tentative in Esther and Deborah is now clearly planned as a whole, with firmly delineated characters. Racine’s terse construction, which was not too badly hurt by Humphreys, helped greatly; the music and the action are continuous and well connected, there are often no caesurae at all between individual numbers, and the chorus is superbly organic in its function. Handel learned from Racine the tragic responsibility of character, and now he saw the problem of individuality in two different ways: psychologically but also purely dramatically, a combination seldom achieved in opera. One notices his concern with the relationship of such a commanding figure as Athalia to the rest; he tries to match her with the background as if searching for something that would be somewhere between Shakespeare and the Greeks.
Athalia contains mostly new music, original, vigorous in invention, and often enchanting, for this violent drama also calls for “gentle airs,” “melodious strains,” and lulling sicilianas, not only in the solo parts but also in the chorus; “The gods who chosen blessings shed” has a quiet radiance Handel seldom duplicated. In contrast to that, the Queen’s music is restless and always highly dramatic; while a murderess, in her finest moments she rises above crime. “To darkness eternal” is a defiantly moving farewell to power and pride, almost compensating for the absence of real tragedy.
What was already clear in Esther, the new role and importance of the chorus, which determined the oratorio as a species, is here fully developed. The number of the choruses, varying in length and tone and broadening to eight parts, is unusually large. Such sections as “Rejoice, O Judah,” “Give glory,” and “The clouded scene begins to clear” are Handel in his unapproachable glory. The extended choral scenes with their rich orchestra show Handel in full command of the epic-dramatic grandeur of the oratorio, which is something quite different from the expansive ceremonial tone of the anthems and Te Deums—though the spirit of the coronation anthem is not missing: the climactic chorus in the third act, a tremendous piece, shows it. The pyramidal Hallelujah Chorus in the first act, a double fugue, is actually borrowed from the Chandos Anthem, As pants the hart, but it is so apt for the situation that its effect is altogether new.
This imperious chorus, which interrupts the solos and forces the action, is welded into a certain unity with the solo voices and there is an admirable gradation of dramatic tension working up to the climactic third act. The recitatives are anything but perfunctory, and the accompanied ones shine with a new intensity. This integration of the arias into the whole brought about the most important dramaturgical step that characterizes the new genre and distinguishes it from opera: the da capo aria, though still present, is used sparingly. There are also two remarkable duets in Athalia—dramatic, not chamber duets—and many exquisite concertante parts for various instruments. Another thing we encounter here for the first time is the particular care Handel lavishes on the music of the Baalites. In the choruses of all later oratorios he made a distinction between the Hebrews and the heathen. The former are given elaborate contrapuntal settings while the latter, usually homophonically treated, are always depicted as innocent, graceful, and charming hedonists, sensuous, erotic, and addicted to dancing and merriment. The orchestra is very colorful, with recorders, flutes, oboes, bassoons, horns, trumpets, as well as organ, harpsichord, and archlute. Handel now not only had obtained his bearings but gave us a masterpiece, the first of the great English oratorios. The autograph of Athalia still contains stage directions, but they are reduced in the German edition, and nowhere appear in the Novello score.
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WE HAVE SEEN HOW successful the English works were in Oxford. Handel now had neither a theatre nor an opera company, yet he pocketed a considerable sum from the English works, which required neither expensive decor nor the even more expensive castratos. Athalia was perhaps Handel’s most applauded new work in the middle period, the eyewitnesses being unanimous in reporting the enthusiasm of the public, the size of which was unprecedented. The fortunes of opera were at a very low ebb even before the collapse of the Royal Academy of Music. Newman Flower’s “Lord B ...” says about these last days: “I left the Italian Opera [The Haymarket Theatre], the House was so thin, and cross’d over the way to the English one [the Little Theatre], which was so full I was forc’d to croud in upon the stage.” In spite of all this, Handel still regarded the oratorio as a side show to opera; worse than that, as expendable. On the first occasion that offered itself, he dismembered Athalia for Parnasso in Festa (see p. 249). Two years later, when Handel once more tried a short season with his English works, he put them on the chopping block, as was his custom on such occasions, and a second reworking of Athalia in 1756 almost destroyed the work.
Though we are scarcely aware of Athalia, the “rediscoverers” of Handel considered it to be among the best of the oratorios; it was re-orchestrated by Baron van Swieten himself for his private Handelian performances. Though a magnificent music drama, it still remains one of the least appreciated. Could it be because even the most far-fetched interpretation cannot make it “sacred”? Even Leichtentritt, one of the most enlightened of the Handelian scholars of the past generation, deplores the absence of “ethical motives” in Athalia. The printed editions do not help the cause. Chrysander’s edition is at least serviceable, but the Novello score, the one generally in use because it is more readily available than the Händelgesellschaft edition, is completely butchered.
Handel not only failed to recognize the significance of his success with h
is English works, but remained adamant when this was brought to his attention by an old friend who had once written for him a successful libretto, Rinaldo, and who was so helpful and understanding at the beginning of his career in England. Aaron Hill’s letter is as perceptive as it is moving. He fully recognized the portent of Handel’s latest activities, sensing the possibility of the establishment of English opera if Handel would only assume leadership. He earnestly invited the composer of “inimitable genius” to be
George Frideric Handel_Dover Books on Music Page 39