We must remember that crumbs are still bread, that a great composer by the sheer force and grace of his imagination and style can invest with a degree of vitality what would otherwise be casual gleanings. In spite of its untidiness, Judas Maccabaeus is a durable and often very impressive work, and in the others too there are some stretches rich in imagination and ideas as well as some numbers that can be ranged next to the greatest in Hercules and Belshazzar.
Whether one feels that Handel was the victim of a generous error in giving so much of his time to this kind of music, or fully admires Judas Maccabaeus, there is no gainsaying that the victory oratorios, particularly the last-mentioned, radically and decisively altered his life and position. His enemies were silenced, their weapons dulled; Handel was no longer an intruding foreigner but a popular poet laureate—the oratorio performances were turning into memorable events. Embarked upon the seventh decade of his life, he was now assured of an unassailable stature, supported not only by the entire royal family, including his erstwhile enemy Frederick, Prince of Wales, and by aristocratic patrons of Middlesex’s opera, but also by all strata of the “general public.” 103
The times had indeed changed. In his preface to the word book of Samson (1743), Newburgh Hamilton, bewailing that “so many mean Artifices have been lately us’d to blast all his [Handel’s] Endeavours,” consoled himself by the consideration that “all true Lovers and real Judges of Musick” know that “we have so great a Genius among us.” Nevertheless, it took the musical settings of the themes of a great national crisis to swell the ranks of these “true Lovers” with a multitude of fickle ones, who only a short time before were either indifferent or hostile. Perhaps the most interesting example of this newly won loyalty and admiration is furnished by Lord Middlesex and his opera party, whose anti-Handelian moves and defamations had surpassed anything he had had to endure from his wily Italian competitors.
After its debacle (see above, p. 420), the Middlesex company was reconstituted for the 1745-46 season. The resident maestro, Giovanni Battista Lampugnani (1706-1781), who took over from Galuppi in 1743, was retained, but he had to share his office with visiting celebrities. The company had a good roster of singers, and it seemed as though Italian opera had made a comeback. “The opera flourished more than in any latter years,” remarked Horace Walpole. The visiting maestro for the 1745-46 season was Gluck, but he does not seem to have cared for the position; after a few months in London he was back on the Continent. In former years Handel would have considered Gluck an antagonist and would have moved heaven and earth to crush him as he did all the other “Italians” (Gluck was consistently billed as Signor Gluck), but by now he cared little for what the opera party was about, and the two musicians got along without any undue contretemps. This was no doubt largely due to Gluck’s great admiration for the senior composer, an admiration he retained all his life. The derogatory statements about Gluck attributed to Handel have not been correctly assayed. There is an anecdote connected with Gluck’s visit to London that made the rounds of biographies as well as of those anthologies that are devoted to the delights of seeing great men make fools of themselves. Handel is supposed to have remarked to Mrs. Cibber that “Gluck knows no more counterpoint than my cook.” While the accuracy of this story cannot be ascertained, it is entirely plausible, but we must also take into consideration the work that invited this sarcastic remark. Gluck’s first offering, La Caduta de’ giganti, was a pasticcio made up of youthful works of the composer, then in his thirty-first year. Moreover, the “cook” referred to was Waltz, a well-trained musician of the old school.
This minor work of Gluck’s deserves a closer look not because of its intrinsic merits, but because of its purpose, which parallels Handel’s. During the rebellion the theatres knew hard times and most of them were closed when the Scots threatened the south. The idea of exploiting the situation, especially when the tide began to recede after Derby, seemed as attractive to the opera partisans as it was to the oratorians. Gluck was persuaded to adapt his music into a hastily arranged allegorical homage to the valiant Prince who led the English hosts. Being unfamiliar with the form such a piece would take in England, he naturally resorted to its Italian equivalent, the serenata, but the Duke of Cumberland was as clearly visible underneath the Italian garb as he was under the Jewish. Presented on January 7, 1746, La Caduta was very successful and played to full houses. The Italian opera’s foray into English politics was not without an ironic touch. Gluck, as well as the entire personnel of the Italian opera, was of course a Catholic; it must have been a little embarassing for them to assist at the “anti-papal” rallies. But life, especially operatic life, must go on, and perhaps they scarcely realized the issues at stake. Another small but historically significant detail did not escape the keen eyes of Deutsch. Though an old-fashioned Italian pasticcio serenata, La Caduta “was called in the bill ‘a Musical Drama,’ as had been Handel’s Hercules a year before at the same house.” The new dramatic species created by Handel had begun to make its mark.
Responding to the new climate, the opera party not only called off the war, but switched to what seemed a friendly co-existence; this really concealed piracy, an unashamed exploitation of Handel’s rising fame. On November 14, 1747, Lucio Vero was performed at the Haymarket Theatre. The advertisement simply stated that “This Drama Consists of Airs, borrow’d entirely from Mr. Handel’s favourite Operas.” Another pasticcio, Roxana, an arrangement of Alessandro, again announced as “Compos’d by Mr. Handel,” was produced in February 1748. After that the Haymarket Company gave up all pretense, simply snatching an original opera, Ottone, thus virtually setting up Handel as a competitor to himself. The irony of the situation was that while the advertisements paid lavish compliments to Handel, in the absence of copyright laws with teeth, he neither had control over his music, nor did he receive any compensation. This should have been even more galling to the old warrior than the previous enmity, but he was not perturbed; by this time he was used to being in the public domain. It became customary at theatrical benefit performances to sing a Handel air or two as a bonus; even Hamlet received such embellishment.
Handel found a bonus of his own, however, in the Haymarket performances: badly needed singers to relieve his aging leading ladies. While formerly the Opera of the Nobility not only prohibited their singers from appearing with their competitor but even had an efficient program of proselytizing, now the King’s Theatre singers were permitted to sing at Handel’s Lenten seasons while remaining in the employ of the opera house. Giulia Frasi, who became Handel’s leading soprano until the end of his life, he spotted at a performance of Lucio Vero, her first engagement in London. Aside from her fine voice (though Burney called it “cold and un-impassinned”), Frasi’s English diction was impeccable. The two became fast friends. Contralto Caterina Galli was also a Haymarket discovery. Under Handel’s watchful and expert tutoring, Galli, endowed with a fine natural voice, developed into a great singer who remained with Handel till the end. Her performance in Judas Maccabaeus was a triumph, and she became a great favorite with the public, though in later years she grew fat, indolent, and intractable; only Handel could manage her. Elisabetta Gambarini, an even younger singer than Galli, did not stay long with Handel; she must have been an accomplished musician, judging from the harpsichord pieces and songs she published and the organ recitals she gave. Casarini, a soprano with the Middlesex troupe, and Sibilla, a German free-lance singer, neither of whom is known beyond her last name, completed the female contingent of his Lenten casts. Of the men, aging Reinhold was steady, and Lowe took over the tenor parts when Beard was not available or was out of favor.
Handel now lived a calm and secure life. He held to a regular schedule: two oratorios composed during the summer, preparation and performances during the season. He no longer cared either for publicity or for society; old friends were retained, the ones who had been too prudent during the trying days were quietly ignored, and a very few new ones were accepted. The frien
ds of the early decades in England, such as Dr. Arbuthnot and Queen Caroline, were long since gone, but there were some staunch ones of more recent date. Among these the Harris family was particularly faithful. James Harris (1709-1780), the oldest of three brothers and a cousin of the Earl of Shaftesbury, was a man of considerable distinction. Member of Parliament, classical scholar, esthetician, philologist (his collected works were published in 1801), he had a deep admiration and affection for Handel. Harris was also an enthusiastic and excellent amateur musician. Morell recalls a performance of Jephtha under his direction in Salisbury which he declared to have been the finest he had ever heard. The second brother, Thomas, was a jurist; the third, the Reverend William Harris, was chaplain to the Bishop of Salisbury. The family’s ancestral seat was in Salisbury, where James took a very active part in the local music festivals. The descendants of James Harris, the Lords Malmesbury, collected the family letters and papers, which contain a good deal of Handelian lore.104 But some of the happiest hours Handel passed with his lady friends, Mrs. Delany, Mrs. Cibber, and La Frasi, whose house was always a welcome refuge. When he was in their company he was altogether different from the reserved quasi recluse he had become to the rest of the world; he was relaxed, friendly, and full of wit. The ladies pampered the now corpulent and slightly bent but still impressive man to his heart’s content.
Handel’s creative vitality may have been somewhat circumscribed by Morell and the events that called forth the victory oratorios, but it was not lessened; Alexander Balus and Joshua were composed in ten weeks, which had been the tempo of the creation of Hercules and Belshazzar. By the time the 1748 season ended with Judas Maccabaeus on April 7, he must have been tired of victory music; a glance at Joshua’s “Haste, Israel, haste” will show that it is barren of real conviction. It was time for a change, and Handel did not waste any time: on May 5 he began Solomon, which was finished by June 13, and July-August was spent in the composition of Susanna.
XVIII
1748-1749
Solomon (1749)—Librettist unknown—The music—Susanna (1749)—Anonymous librettist—The music—Handel acquiesces in public’s indolence—Proved successes carry the oratorio seasons—Political events claim his attention—Royal Fireworks Music (1749)—Made Governor of Foundling Hospital—The admired master
Solomon, AN INCESSANTLY VIVID PANORAMA, IS ONE OF THE richest of the oratorios; Handel seems to be intent on seeing how much sail he can crowd on without wrecking his ship. This oratorio is not a story of blighted love or damaging passion; there is no conflict because there are no antagonists among the principal figures, and there is no jealousy because the King and his ardent wife are young lovers who have eyes for each other only. Handel composed a work that is part pageant, part idyll, part allegory. The action is still skeletal, as in the victory oratorios, the librettist working with tableaux and individual acts rather than with a unified three-act drama, a choice that precluded dramatic characterization of the sort Handel created in Saul or Belshazzar. At times the figures seem more like abstractions than fully vitalized personalities, yet the mood is so pervasive that a certain personality of more than momentary validity does come through. On the other hand, the theatrical-visual conception of course suited Handel admirably, and while there is no comprehensive construction, the individual acts are well formed. Solomon is one of the “sacred” oratorios and in a sense it is concerned with religion, though with a religion neither Hebrew nor Christian. What it conveys is the apprehension and the love of life’s mystery and beauty, the conviction of meaning in all things; in a word, a pantheistic view of the world. This being the case, one wonders why King Solomon was selected as the subject of this work.
Solomon is commemorated in centuries of folklore, all versions agreeing in praising his wisdom, wealth, and glory, although in fact he was not very different from other oriental potentates. He did realize the plan of David, his father, by completing the Temple, and he built as well a number of other splendid edifices. Among these was a palace for the Daughter of Pharaoh who, alone of the reputed hundreds of occupants of his harem, was retained by the librettist as his Queen. There are other aspects of the history of Solomon, however, that had a great deal to do with the purpose of the oratorio named after him.
The Messianic teaching of Judaism cannot be understood apart from the role that Solomon played as an empire builder. Nor can Solomon’s prayer in the Temple be understood correctly unless it is interpreted from the standpoint of a political act intended to strengthen and further his imperial design. The King’s reign marks the zenith of Israel’s power, perhaps because Solomon realized, as did the English, the dangers of subjecting the royal power to the spiritual authority of the priests. He was a diplomat who, like the English, preferred to treat and bargain rather than go to war but nevertheless organized his country’s military affairs very competently. Even from the biblical tale it is obvious that the Queen of Sheba did not visit Solomon just to ask him questions, as the story goes; she was alarmed by Solomon’s commercial policy and by his fleet. In the best tradition of statecraft she came to offer an entente. All modern scholars agree that the Queen of Sheba never entertained any amatory designs upon the person of Solomon, but the creative imagination of folk art supplants the sobriety of the chroniclers.
The librettist of Solomon made his own interpretation of the biblical tale. In the old and well-tried manner of “official history,” he omitted all adverse nuances, making of the King of the Israelites not only a paragon of monogamy but an irreproachable figure that could not have displeased the King of the English, who knew well that he and his subjects were beholding their own portrait. Thus, in a sense, if not one of the victory oratorios, Solomon is at least an epilogue to them. It is still full of magnificent pageantry, but it is better integrated than its immediate predecessors; it still glorifies king and country, but now the king does not lead in battle but rules over a peaceful and prosperous land; it still praises Jehovah, but these choruses have the potent and magical quality of creating an atmosphere in which by purely epic-rhetorical means universal human emotions are at once idealized and intensified. Musical rhetoric, we must remember, cannot be judged by the canons of other arts; it can be unalloyed beauty.
English authors were not slow in recognizing in Solomon a glorification of George II and the eulogy of a nation secure in its power and living the plentiful life of a golden age. Even the Queen of Sheba, who should be an exotic figure, resembles a British sovereign on a political state visit, and Pharaoh’s daughter is just an amorous girl emerging from the English countryside. This is not new, of course: The Taming of the Shrew is played in Padua, but Katherina is certainly Kate, an English girl. What is really epitomized in Solomon is not arms and the man but the nation, its stability and its prosperity. Young puts this succinctly: “Solomon exalts reason, wisdom, wealth, and cultural ostentation.” Yet while Solomon is a variety of the victory piece, or at least a eulogistic homage, it is “of permanent rather than occasional significance” (Dean).
The German authors have been baffled by this oratorio. With few exceptions they are not sufficiently familiar with the temper of the times and with the history of the English musical theatre from the Stuart masque to Purcell’s semi-opera, to which Solomon stands in considerable debt. As usual they tried to read profound moral and metaphysical lessons into what is essentially a brilliant theatre piece. Not so Ernst H. Meyer, who has a thorough knowledge of English history, musical and cultural. He saw in Solomon and the other late oratorios Handel’s increasing identification with the English people and English life, which became a prime source of his inspiration.105 His, as well as other excellent modern essays were available to the quasi-official German biographer of Handel who was entrusted with the completion of Chrysander’s work, yet Serauky blithely goes on record as saying that “one thing must repeatedly be emphasized: Handel never became an Englishman in his adopted country.”
Chrysander, Leichtentritt, and Schering consider Morell to be the
unnamed author of the libretto, but Dean disputes this. Perhaps the shrewdest part of his careful examination of the text is the botanical analysis, which proves that whoever wrote the book was a nature lover, something Morell assuredly was not. Even if we grant that the librettist’s references to nature are based on scriptural allusions to Solomon’s interest in nature, the anonymous author’s partiality to nature pictures (which may have been the very thing that attracted Handel to him) goes far beyond antiquarian zeal. Since nature’s moods and aspects were always within the call of Handel’s memory, he now freely indulges in his favorite pastoral scenes, reaching a culmination in the intoxicating freshness of the “Nightingale Chorus.” All the choruses are those of the Israelites; the counterpoint, always reserved for them, is therefore extensive, rich, and elaborate. The orchestra is used on the same large scale as the mighty eight-part choruses; the iridescent delicacy of Alexander Balus is seldom present; brilliance, solidity, and expansiveness largely overrule color.
The plot can be told in a couple of sentences. In the first act the recently built Temple is consecrated, the King, the priests, and his people offer songs of thanksgiving, after which the King retires with his young Queen. Act Two presents the famous story of Solomon’s judgment over the infant claimed by two women, while Act Three is devoted to the entertainment of the Queen of Sheba on a state visit. The story was put together from I Kings and II Chronicles, but some historical writings were also consulted.
George Frideric Handel_Dover Books on Music Page 63