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THE “libretto” of Messiah is rather extraordinary, for virtually every word is scriptural, selected from a great variety of passages from both Books. Jennens did his work with considerable skill; the selections from Prophets, Gospels, Pauline Epistles, and the Revelations of John were ably blended into a text eminently suitable for musical setting. Some doubts later arose about Jennens’s ability to make such a good compilation, and a legend grew up according to which his secretary, Pooley, an impecunious clergyman, was mainly responsible for its excellence. Debunking is of course great fun, but it works only with the aid of solid evidence. The trouble with the Pooley story is not only that there is absolutely no evidence to support it, but Pooley himself is so insubstantial a phenomenon that no trace of him can be found. Yet the story gained credence and is still repeated, for the Squire of Gopsall invited ill will both during his lifetime and afterwards.
Jennens was always ready with comforting words, and if what he said was not in the Bible, it always sounded as though it should have been. He was one of those ready to assert high principles and to justify his desertion of one after another of them, but, when his own literary exertions were not involved, he was a genuine admirer of Handel. In a letter to one of his friends in 1745, he claims that he “made Handel correct some of the grossest faults in the composition,” averring in another passage that though Handel’s setting resulted in a “fine entertainment,” it is “not nearly so good as he might and ought to have done.” Evidently the pompous and vain Jennens must have pestered the composer ever since the first setting of Messiah, for—and with uncharacteristic patience and forbearance—Handel wrote him in July 1744: “Be pleased to point out those passages which you think need altering.”
The selection of the words has also been attributed to Handel alone, a theory contradicted by Handel’s distinct acknowledgment of Jennens’s authorship and his references to “your Messiah” or “your oratorio.” Whatever is said, while Handel undoubtedly had more than one session at Gopsall and took a hand in the shaping of the libretto, Jennens was the compiler.88
The libretto was more than a compilation, for it had a subtle plan behind it: the sequence of Promise, Incarnation, Passion, and Resurrection provides an epic unity that dispenses with a dramatic plot. Thus Messiah does have a religious basis, but as Winton Dean crisply states: “‘Sacred’ refers to the subject, not to the style of music or Handel’s purpose in writing it.” And we must bear in mind that Jennens, as well as the Dublin papers, always refers to Messiah as a “fine” or “grand” or “elegant Entertainment,” a designation that posterity found very embarrassing. Indeed, the oratorio does not present the life and Passion of Jesus but the lyric-epic contemplation of the idea of Christian redemption. It was to be altogether non-dramatic and non-descriptive. There is scarcely any narration or action in it, and most of the recitatives are undramatic, not a few even perfunctory. Comparisons with the North German Passion are inadmissible, if for no other reason than the combination of Advent, Christmas, and Easter, which makes a de tempore use possible only if the great work is taken apart—which is exactly what our churches do, thereby destroying the whole plan. Nevertheless, the turba and “scourging” choruses do come, of course, from the German Passion, while many of the arias and all the accompanied recitatives are pure opera.
The fact is that while Bach’s Passions, notably the St. John, are highly dramatic, with Jesus represented in person, Messiah is undramatic, without even a dramatis personae. In Messiah not only were the individual parts simply designated by vocal register, but various numbers were divided between the same vocal type. Handel used from five to nine soloists; only once, in 1749, was Messiah performed with four soloists. Yet the theatre is not altogether absent in Messiah; Handel’s freshness and flexibility, his incomparable capacity for seeing and retaining significant nuance, could not be so severely disciplined as to pass up every opportunity for dramatic expression. Inevitably the elements of dramatic music, of Italian opera, were present, as they were in Bach. Certain formulas, intervals, repetitions, and sequences are so basic to the species that even the altogether different English speech rhythm cannot eliminate them. The accompanied recitative, in particular, is purely dramatic-theatrical, it cannot become “churchly”; to call these recitatives in the oratorios geistigreligiös is nonsense.
What distinguishes Messiah above all from the North German Passion, and from most of Handel’s own oratorios, is the choruses. No, Messiah is neither cantata, nor geistliches Konzert, nor Passion, nor North German Betrachtungsoratorium, but an English anthem-oratorio, full of stately ceremonial music, and in this sense related to Israel in Egypt. Next to the great Exodus epic it has the largest number of choruses in relation to solo numbers. This was recognized as early as 1763 by Dr. John Brown, who remarked that though Messiah “is called an Oratorio, yet it is not dramatic but properly a Collection of Hymns or Anthems drawn from the sacred Scriptures.” As a matter of fact, for some time, especially in Germany, the arias were felt to be so inferior to the choruses that some amusingly radical changes were advocated. In 1820 it was seriously suggested in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, a most respectable musical journal, that because of this discrepancy in quality the leading composers of the time should get together and recompose the arias! And this at a time when Graun’s gaudy imitation Italian arias in Der Tod Jesu were held up as the models of profoundly religious art.
There can be no question, indeed, that the unparalleled popularity of Messiah is due mainly to its anthem-like choruses. It is not the subtle idea of Redemption that captivates the listeners but the rousing choruses that are first cousins to the sumptuous ceremonial anthems. The Deity that finally emerges from this great work is the triumphant God of the Old Testament whom Handel so often praised in his oratorios, not Christ the Redeemer, whom he so magnificently evokes in one of the arias—and this in spite of the fact that Messiah is essentially a paean of Redemption. And when the Hallelujah Chorus is thundered, its wondrous strains exuding power and pomp, the audience gets to its feet to greet a mighty ruler in whose presence we do not kneel but stand at attention.
This exceptional work, a type to which Handel never returned, was nevertheless almost solely responsible for posterity’s adulation; Handel was enthroned as the Christian church composer par excellence. Of the other oratorios only those of the anthem type, such as Israel in Egypt and Judas Maccabaeus, led a modest existence next to Messiah, and the dramatist was completely unknown. For this reason, though Messiah is familiar to all of us, we should take a closer look at the music. This is the more necessary because no other oratorio—in fact no other choral work—is so burdened with the most fantastic symbolic interpretations.
Beginning with the overture we are faced with extraordinary metaphysical speculations on the part of the commentators. Even the usually sober and judicious Streatfeild succumbs here, speaking of the world steeped in sin and despair awaiting the Redeemer. But of course any solemn Grave in the minor key could be so interpreted. The sinfonia that opens Messiah is a French overture, like countless others Handel composed, except that it is one of his best and well suited for an introduction to this work. The important point is a purely musical one, namely that after the E minor of the overture, the friendly E major of the following recitative is indeed “comforting.” The minute Handel begins setting the text, the sort of exegesis that became popular at the beginning of this century under the name of “hermeneutics” can be used with abandon, for old and trusted formulas are to be met with everywhere. We do not dispute the validity of such interpretations; after all, the whole of the Baroque Affektenlehre was predicated on it, and all composers of the age attempted to portray words, even ideas, by using musical figures that have a pictorial quality expressible in the very graphic image of the score. But both the term hermeneutics and the notion were borrowed from scriptural exegesis; the procedure is highly subjective and is liable to far-fetched exaggeration. Our main objection is directed a
gainst arbitrarily selective use of it; the commentators often pick what suits them and just as often pass in silence the contradictory examples. Thus when the tenor, in his first and exceptionally fine accompanied recitative, sings “and cry unto her,” the voice vaults upwards on the word “cry,” just as it does on Aus tiefer Not, or in practically all settings of Et ascendit in caelum. But it is just as incontestable that in “Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem,” the octave leap on “comfortably” is unanimously ignored by the exegetes; it cannot be exploited symbolically because one does not leap in comfort. Granted that word painting was second nature to all Baroque composers, and Handel was especially felicitous in its use, one must guard against too literal interpretation; Handel never indulged in tone painting that could not be justified on purely musical grounds.
The following cavatina, “Every valley,” where on the word “exalted” the melody breaks into lush coloraturas, is one of Handel’s enchanting nature pictures, and the chorus “And the glory of the Lord” follows the poetic plan naturally. The dance-like character of this magnificent piece adds greatly to the feeling of rejoicing. The combination of contrasting themes is masterly, but what overwhelms is the typical Handelian concentration on chordal outbursts, as with the words “and the glory of the Lord.” Curiously, the dance character was found a little objectionable by Streatfeild—shades of Purcell! In the bass recitative “Thus saith the Lord,” Handel again indulges in tone painting on “shake the heav’ns.” This is a robust recitative, and indeed the bass part—as in Handel’s operas—is robust throughout.
“But who may abide” exists in versions for bass, tenor, and soprano, but the bass version is preferable, not only because Handel carefully saved the high soprano voice until the arrival of the Child Jesus but because in the following prestissimo the equable, slightly pastoral piece turns into a regulation “rage” aria, which by time-honored tradition is the province of the bass. “And He shall purify” is a choral fugue, quiet in the polyphonic sections, but as usual proclamatory in the anthem-like homophonic-syllabic measures. Though exquisite in workmanship, this is not, on the whole, an inspired piece, and some slight discrepancy arises as the tone painting originally devised for the second part of the Italian cantata Quel fcor che all’alba ride is applied to the English text without further ado. The aria and chorus “O thou that tellest” is again in the pastoral vein, the gently florid dance tune expressing intimate peace and rejoicing. This is a strophic song which gains in intensity in every strophe. Highly refined is the gradual acceptance by the voice of the little expressive motif that first appears in the orchestra during the held notes and rests in the vocal part.
“The people that walked in darkness” is a remarkable example of tone painting by unison of bass and strings. Its hesitating meandering does indeed suggest the tentative groping of those who walk in the darkness. This compelling piece was completely misunderstood by Mozart, who composed very fine—and totally un-Handelian—additional contrapuntal parts to it, presumably to relieve what to him appeared as monotony. J. M. Coopersmith, in the preface to his pathbreaking critical edition of the vocal score of Messiah (New York, 1947), follows Leichtentritt’s advice in recommending full continuo harmonization of the entire piece; both of them are woefully wrong. The harmonization would remove the very groping Handel intended to represent by the use of stark unison. There are many examples in Handel’s operas to show that the unison was deliberate. Furthermore, Handel’s intentions are clear, for full harmonization appears whenever the text mentions “light.”
It was a stroke of genius to follow this dark piece with the happy madrigal “For unto us a Child is born” To some the provenance of this delectable piece beclouds its irresistible charm. As in several other numbers in Messiah, Handel utilized portions of his earlier Italian chamber duets, in this case the lightly amorous “No, I will not trust you, blind Love.” These duet-descended choruses are a miracle of craftsmanship and musical sensitivity; with their delicate, unforced, and free linearity, in which all four parts seldom appear simultaneously, they retain a good deal of the intimacy of chamber music, without suggesting the original species. So extraordinary are they that they constitute a special category, the “duet-chorus,” altogether different from the great choral fugues and massive anthem choruses. Handel was so enamored of this affecting piece that he repeated the exposition twice, ending with a fine coda. But “For unto us a Child is born” is far more than a skilful parody-transcription. True, Handel did not pay too much attention to the changed accents; the “No” in the original (Nò, di voi non vuò fidarmi) does not fit the “For” at all, but what does it matter? When Handel suddenly makes the delicate madrigal erupt in tremendous ejaculations—“Wonderful, Counselor”—he gives the composition a significance the original never had. At the great cries the discreet accompaniment ceases as the violins swing upward in bright, jubilant thirds. Beethoven always marvelled at the elemental effect of this passage, and Mozart exclaimed, “When he chooses he strikes like thunder.” The performance of this piece demands particular attention on the part of the conductor. The “andante-allegro” prescribed by the composer is usually misunderstood—we are dealing with 18th-century notions of tempo. But no historical erudition is needed when dealing with this ever fresh and modern music; a madrigal must never be sung at breakneck speed. Nor should it be performed with the full chorus, which should fall in with “Wonderful.” 89
After this radiant piece the mood turns to the pastoral; since the 19th century this part of Messiah has been most notoriously exploited in a lachrymose way. But how can we blame the country organist, choirmaster, or music teacher for sentimentalizing such a delicately poetic piece as the Pastoral Symphony, predicated on pure string sound, when Chrysander, the great Handelian scholar, himself suggests the addition of woodwinds, organ, and harp!
We are perfectly willing to agree that the ethereal violin accompaniment in the following recitatives (“And lo, the angel of the Lord”; “And suddenly there was with the angel”) represents the soft beating of the angels’ wings, but the remarkable aspect of these pieces is that they are neither rhetorical nor dramatic but simple scriptural narratives which are most attractive and appropriate in context. Eventually the dramatic instinct rebelled against such a “lost opportunity,” and in the London ver-sion Handel introduced a more expressive arioso. Even though this is a fine piece, the first version is preferable.
Now the trumpets enter—but not the way we usually hear them. Handel demands that they should sound da lontano, “from a distance,” i.e. off stage, then gradually move nearer. Nor is “Glory to God” supposed to burst upon us—the dynamics of the trumpets makes this clear. The change after five measures to basses and tenors (“and peace on earth”) is the more arresting because the previous measures avoid the bass register. The emotional-dynamic scheme of this piece is extraordinarily ratfiné, for as Handel passes from homophony to polyphony (“good will toward men”), then to antiphonal exchange, and finally to a full-voiced and full-throated ensemble, the effect is overwhelming. The fine orchestral postlude gradually fades into the “distance” whence it came. “Rejoice greatly” is a true da capo aria, embellished with coloraturas, the accompaniment worked out with particular care. “He shall feed his flock” offers the quintessence of southern Italian suavity, and it is this very quality that makes it so tenderly expressive of Christ the Good Shepherd. The pervasive charm of this song resists any verbalization. The chorus “His yoke is easy” once more returns to Quel fior, yet in the choral version it somehow acquires a Purcellian flavor with its lilting, dotted coloraturas. As in “For unto us a Child is born,” the fugal treatment is light and transparent, the four parts seldom appear simultaneously. Handel carefully indicated the dynamic contrasts so as to make this transparency unequivocal, but at the end the anthem character takes the upper hand, and the splendid homophonic setting, in wide open chords (the treble is carried to high B-flat), is the epitome of sonorous choral euphony.
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p; So ends the Advent-Nativity part of the oratorio; unflagging in inspiration and rich in the most wondrous invention and craftsmanship.
The second part is the Passion-Resurrection “cantata,” but, as we have said, it is not modelled after the North German Passion; the drama is eschewed for contemplation. Nevertheless, “Behold the Lamb of God,” which opens this section with majestic solemnity, does have a good deal of the tone of the old Passion music. It is noticeably archaic in style, only to turn to a smiling sorrow as the soprano holds the pitch on “the sin of the world” while the three lower parts sing a sort of gently rhythmicized lullaby. When this wonderful chorus is sung too loudly—as it usually is—all its tender mourning is lost. “He was despised” is one of Handel’s great arias, a lament in which the sadness becomes physically expressed through an individual, even though unnamed, making the magnificent piece dramatic and operatic in spirit and tone, as is further attested by the expressive rests and the little dialogues between orchestra and voice. Here the melody does not flow; it gets under way with difficulty, in little gasps—“rejected,” “despised”—then in the middle portion of the aria, in the sharply accented C minor chords of the orchestra, the real drama is upon us.
The Passion music is then carried to its conclusion in a group of choruses. Handel’s imagination continues unabated on the highest plane. Now he reaches back for the accompaniment of the middle section of the preceding aria, but turns it into the darker F minor, pounding along relentlessly with dotted sixteenths. But above this grim orchestral tableau the chorus is not agitated; it comments, in hushed astonishment, that “Surely, He hath borne our griefs.” Handel took “surely” to be a trisyllabic word, but the inflection expresses the idea so perfectly, and is so English in tone, that we have no reason to bewail the metric slip. Indeed, the two-syllable Wahrlich in the German translation does not fit into the situation at all. It is in this sense that we must consider Handel’s supposed lack of understanding of the English language; he does occasionally mishandle the tonic accent and meter but not the spirit of the language.
George Frideric Handel_Dover Books on Music Page 47