George Frideric Handel_Dover Books on Music

by Paul Henry Lang

  At this moment Daniel appears, exhorting the people not to believe such a “varnished tale,” whereupon the Second Elder angrily calls him a “presumptuous boy.” Daniel accepts the challenge. “‘Tis not age’s sullen face that is the sign of wisdom,” the song demonstrating more an eminently judicial temper than strong personal conviction, though it is not altogether without a certain wrath. A third Judge is sufficiently impressed by Daniel’s invoking the sanctity of the legal concept that a verdict cannot be reached without sufficient inquiry and proof, and orders the case reopened. This entire scene has been declared an unconvincing operatic deus ex machina, but such court thrillers are usually theatrically unexceptionable, and this one is supremely well managed.

  The procedure is quite according to English jurisprudence. First Daniel, a sort of amicus curiae, requests the setting aside of the verdict and the freeing of the accused; presently, as a retrial is ordered, he assumes the role of defense counsel. At this point the librettist remembers that divine sanction or aid must be worked into the proceedings to keep the chorus occupied. Handel obliges with a very fine “prelude and fugue”: “Impartial Heav’n, whose hand shall never cease.” Now the defense counsel undertakes the cross-examination of the accusers. “Thou artful wretch,” he addresses the First Elder, “what tree stretch’s her boughs to screen the guilty pair?” “A verdant lentisk,” answers the sentimental one. Then, to the Second Elder, “And say, thou partner in the impious deed, beneath what tree you chaste Susanna saw embrace her lover and transgress the law?” Since the choleric one names a different tree “far to the west,” the falsity of the accusation is proved and the table is turned. Daniel’s song “Chastity, thou cherub bright” following the acquittal is puzzling. It is a winsome piece, good melody, sensitive accompaniment with an intermittent ground bass which at the same time is elaborated thematically—yet it is not quite successful. Handel in his usual way picked out the words that appealed to him: “gentle as the dawn of light,” “swift as musick’s dying strain,” which turned the piece into a shapely pastoral-like song. What is puzzling is its neutrality, why Handel composed a simile aria instead of presenting the future prophet’s feelings at having rescued Susanna.

  Joachim now arrives at the scene. The text of his love song, “Gold within the furnace try’d,” is poor, nor is this a character piece, but inviting music it is. The piquant alternation of the same thematic material in symmetric and asymmetric patterns is captivating. Now Chelsias also appears as a character witness, but after the dénouement, again, Handel lets his imagination yield to the expertise of the craftsman mopping up. Everything is skilful and agreeable, but the spark is gone. Chelsias’s brief air is perfunctory, the chorus’s “Bless’d be the day that gave Susanna birth,” with the trumpets making their first appearance, is also a routine number, but Susanna’s charms are not yet exhausted. She now sums up everything in her “Guilt trembling spoke my doom.” The song is passionate, but we also see the sparkling of the amorous tear. This piece could easily be shifted into the latter part of the century; it is galant, homophonic, and the accompaniment has a symphonic-operatic quality. The slackness returns with the following duet and the final chorus, both of which are less than minor Handel.

  Performance of the two oratorios took place in inverse order of their composition. Susanna was presented on February 10, 1749, with Frasi in the title role, Galli as Joachim, Lowe and Reinhold as the First and Second Elder (Reinhold also singing Chelsias’s role), and “the Boy” as Daniel. There were four performances and, though we hear of full houses, Susanna disappeared for ten years; Handel revived it for one performance shortly before his death. Susanna was not heard for another hundred years, and less than sparingly after that. One of the reasons for this neglect is undoubtedly the unfortunate circumstance that sex is unavoidably and palpably present in this oratorio, which never bore the “sacred” epithet despite its Bible-descended text. Even Chrysander, who was straitlaced and inclined to make as much of a celibate of Handel the artist as he was in life, counsels against prudery, warning in his preface that Handel never excised anything of importance from the part of the two Elders. But his colleagues went to work on the wicked libretto with hard blue pencils. The revival in Cologne in 1859 may have been occasioned by the appearance of the first of the Händelgesellschaft volumes, for, most curiously, Chrysander selected this work to inaugurate both his great undertaking and the first centennial anniversary of Handel’s death. Chrysander’s score is on the whole one of the better edited ones, but the Novello score, the one in general use in the English-speaking world, though published several years after Chrysander’s, is an outrageous travesty that should have been withdrawn and banished long ago. In his preface to the score Chrysander acknowledges that Susanna is very long and in need of abridgment; he mentions the cuts Handel himself made and justly observes that Chelsias could be altogether dispensed with.

  Handel, well aware of the limitations and idiosyncrasies of the public, now accepted them stoically. He continued to compose with devotion and integrity, but he knew that his livelihood depended on the proven successes and was no longer downcast when a new work failed to catch on; his revivals filled the house. Yet even here we notice that he often smuggled in among the favorites one or another of his orphans. The première of Susanna was followed by revivals of Hercules and Samson, then on March 17 Solomon reached the public for the first time, followed by Messiah, now announced by its rightful title but sung only once. In the cast of Solomon Galli sang the title role, Frasi appeared in the triple part of the two queens and the First Harlot, the Second Harlot was Sibilla, Zadok fell to Lowe, and the Levite to Reinhold. We have no information about the work’s reception, and though the performances seem to have been well attended there were only two repetitions, and, as with Susanna, Handel did not revive Solomon for ten years. This assuredly is surprising. The subject matter of Susanna may have displeased many, the exquisite miniature work and subtle humor may have been lost on a public expecting lusty Hallelujahs, but the splendor of Solomon, and the dynastic as well as moral message it conveyed, should have appealed to audiences well-conditioned by the victory oratorios.107 But musicians did not fail to recognize the greatness of this oratorio. Haydn heard several excerpts from Solomon in Oxford when the honorary degree of Doctor of Music was conferred upon him in 1791. Greatly impressed, he took the text of Sheba’s recitative, “Thy harmony is divine, great King,” setting it as a three-part canon, which he offered in homage to the university.

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  POLITICAL EVENTS once again demanded musical acknowledgment; Handel was invited to contribute the music to the celebration of the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle. The preparations for the festivities began soon after the armistice in May 1748, their gargantuan scale in odd contrast to the negligible gains Britain achieved by the treaty. Italian specialists in pyrotechnics were engaged, and the general scenic design was in the hands of Jean Nicolas Servan, a celebrated French architect, scene designer, and decorator, who for some reason went under the name of the “Chevalier Servandoni” (which fooled Flower into calling him a “hotheaded Italian”). Under his direction a large wooden edifice was built in Green Park. The firework display, held on April 26, 1749, was a questionable success and ended in near-tragedy. Many of the rockets failed to go off, while those that did managed to set the building itself afire, causing a bad panic in the large crowd, with many injured in the stampede. But the Royal Fireworks Music, as the suite came to be called, pleased, though Handel had had his difficulties with this score. The King wanted “martial instruments” only, but the Duke of Montague, in charge of the festivities as Master General of Ordnance (a couple of hundred cannon also participated in the noise-making) believed that “Handel will never be persuaded” to leave out the strings. Apparently Handel did give in to the monarch’s wishes, for the string parts were added later. The original score called for 9 trumpets, 9 horns, 24 oboes, 12 bassoons and one contrabassoon, 3 pairs of kettledrums, and one or more side dru
ms. The suite is pleasant if inconsequential outdoor music, but the overture, when played by a good wind band, is a brilliant piece. Handel’s friend and admirer, Tyers, the owner of Vauxhall Gardens, arranged a public rehearsal of the music on April 21. Converging on the Gardens, the crowd of some 12,000 created such “stoppage” on London Bridge that carriages were held up for three hours.

  Handel was now indeed popular. On May 9 the grateful General Committee of the Foundling Hospital elected him a Governor of the institution. On May 27 there was a great benefit performance in the Hospital’s chapel, at which the Fireworks Music (with strings added), the new Foundling Hospital Anthem (see above, p. 226), the Dettingen Te Deum (now designated as the Peace Anthem), and selections from Solomon were performed to a full house, with the Prince and Princess of Wales in attendance. This was the first of many charity performances in the Hospital to which Handel, devoted to the cause, always contributed his services. The resultant income substantially added to the Hospital’s operating capital. Handel was now the admired master, with a large stock of works that had become famous and well liked. The recognition he now enjoyed had already begun when he was still in deep distress. Pope, in the fourth book of The Dunciad, came to his rescue in 1742, and Horace Walpole eventually also endorsed him. Neither Pope nor Walpole knew anything about music, or had any taste for it, but, like other men of letters, they distrusted and even despised Italian opera as an intruder upon the English scene. They sensed that the oratorio was something English that they could and should support. There was, too, a growing public for musical performances. Mercantile England was bringing into being large numbers of people who were strange to the uses of their own wealth and leisure and who were eager to know how to live. Handel could have run oratorio seasons with his established successes alone, but he kept on composing new works that carried him into hitherto unexplored regions. This was a bold undertaking, for this astute connoisseur of the game must have known that the public could not follow him into the domain of the spirit that he chose to enter. Though he was no longer the adventurous speculator with buoyant optimism as his main weapon, his imagination was yet abundantly alive, and, like the aged Verdi, he was ready to embark upon his last masterpieces. Theodora was composed during July 1749.

  After a brief creative interlude, the composition of incidental music to Tobias Smollett’s Alceste, Handel made his usual preparations for the oratorio season when London was struck by an earthquake. In the confusion and fear few had a mind to attend the theatre; rather they sought the provinces to escape the tremors which seem to have centered upon London. A month later, after confidence had returned, the city was again shaken, and a veritable exodus followed. The earthquake affected Handel no more than had Prince Charles and his Scots; while others panicked, he quietly went ahead with rehearsals for his spring oratorio season, which opened just before the second series of tremors, on March 2, with Saul. After a repeat performance Judas Maccabaeus followed, and on March 16 Theodora, “with a new Concerto on the Organ,” was presented for the first time.

  XIX

  1749-1750

  New tone in last oratorios—Theodora (1750) has non-biblical Christian subject—Comparison of two “Christian” oratorios: Theodora and Messiah —Morell’s libretto—The music—Theodora Handel’s favorite oratorio—Final castrato role—Theodora complete failure—Entr‘acte: Smollett’s Alceste (1749), reworked as The Choice of Hercules—The music—Handel purchases Rembrandt picture—Presents organ to Foundling Hospital—Conducts Messiah to overflowing houses—Yearly performance of Messiah becomes tradition—Handel makes his will, June 1750—Last visit to Germany

  IT MAY BE THAT GENIUS IS NEVER ENTIRELY AWARE OF ITSELF, and Handel in particular gives evidence even in old age of still exploring his powers and still coming upon surprising discoveries. The more one studies the last two oratorios, Theodora and Jephtha, the more one is aware of a substratum of thought that is elusive. No musically perceptive person can fail to realize that there is here an atmosphere not easy to account for from what is generally known about Handel. There is a spiritual serenity, a tranquillity in facing a host of contradictions and assailing questions, and a preoccupation with the profundities of this life—and of that to come. Poise that is almost detachment, betraying only the merest hint of moralizing and therefore exercising the subtlest of attractions, is typical of the last two oratorios. But it should not be inferred that the tone is always sombre and melancholy; the music often moves with lightness and delightful ease. This music, and it includes some of Handel’s loveliest and most affecting, is quite different from the idiom with which his name is generally associated; yet even those who have no experience in the new, autumnal style will not be slow to recognize its subtle charm. His style has been deepened by experience without losing any of its frank impulsiveness. The emotional stream ripples, but never eddies against either the Scylla of sanctimoniousness or the Charybdis of pomposity, and the tenderness all through these works (in an age with “sensibility” the fashion) never descends to the sentimental. There has been a change, however, in many of those aspects of Handel’s musical and mental processes characteristic since his “conversion” to the oratorio—or is this the conversion? Theodora has a Christian subject, the only English oratorio aside from Messiah of which this is so. But then Jephtha, which is not a Christian oratorio, exhales the same spirit. This tension, and this conception of tranquillity not as an end in itself but as a condition of future events, creates its own particular world. For, indeed, while in Theodora and Jephtha we discern no formal message hidden below the configurations, and the details of the works are not intended to provide symbols and lessons, they do yield more than a story; they leave us with a sense of human nobility.

  Our postulate up to this point has been that within the generally accepted tradition of the “sacred oratorio” the Handelian music drama is unconcerned with Christian philosophy. We have seen that Handel created dramatic poems about individual men and nations, Messiah being the only exception, and it was this exception that became the rule that decided for posterity the reputation of Handel. Messiah was called a “sacred oratorio,” but Theodora never carried the qualifying adjective—Handel always called it “an oratorio” or “a music drama.” This was partly owing to the convention that reserved the “sacred” designation for works that had either biblical texts or biblical connotations. We have noted that, with some exceptions, Messiah is still in the Old Testament oratorio style; it still contains Old Testament texts, and many of its choruses are pure ceremonial anthems. In Theodora Handel for the first time deals with Christian dramatis personae, the story concerning itself with the vicissitudes of Christian persecution and the spiritual travails of the Christian martyrs. And a characteristically Christian idea appears here also for the first time: the insistence on death as a gate to life. Leichtentritt declared Theodora to be “the peak of the Italian saint- and martyr-oratorio,” which it very well may be, if we grant it a place in the Italian genre on the basis of its subject matter. That subject matter is commonplace enough; the theme is human will and human fate; but Handel has treated it with what one is tempted to describe as final clarity, evoking a vision of the inner world, which he affirms and expounds with illuminating grace. We must ask, then, what is the place of Theodora in Handel’s oeuvre and what if any are the connections between the two “Christian” oratorios?

  Surely they cannot be directly compared; at most we can range the two works side by side as great music. There is no resemblance in the treatment of the religious motif. The appearance, though impersonal and undramatic, of Christ in Messiah brings a new spirit and a new problem into the Handelian oratorio. In this work, the composer of dramatic passions shies away from the dramatic treatment, but he does not on the other hand ascend the pulpit. Theodora is in a different category: it is an intimate work. Even the choruses are intimate, and there is none of the Old Testament grandeur to which we are accustomed in the other oratorios, including Messiah, neither rousing H
allelujahs nor majestic double fugues. Of sophisticated religious dogma there is no trace in Theodora, but—and Jephtha shares in this—of immediate experience of God as revealed in all life there is much convincing and moving evidence. The fusion of action and suffering dominates Handel’s imagination in the last two oratorios; the conflict is more and more an inner one. The love story in Theodora, presented with great delicacy, nevertheless quickens the pace of the drama, emphasizing the appeal of its spiritual qualities by the lovers’ intense endeavor to transcend—though without denying—the flesh. And there is the shadow of death falling on everything, but it is not oppressive, for the mood is lyric, the application of the most delicate art to the conception of tragedy.

  Morell took the story from a historical novel, The Martyrdom of Theodora and Didymus by Robert Boyle (1627-1691), which appeared in 1667. The original novel is both unctuous and gory. Boyle’s heroine, Theodora,108 with her beauty, her secret terrors, and her unvarying virtue, confronted Morell with a difficult task, yet he managed to turn the very weakness of the material into a kind of strength by stripping the story of Boyle’s worst features and composing a preface to form Act One. While Morell’s style is atrocious, the action is fairly continuous and constant; the story is complete and intelligible. Even so, he worked out that story with a kind of resigned relentlessness. Here is life, the Doctor seems to say, and character—the composer must face it to the end. But the librettist also provided something that was welcome to Handel, the clash of two worlds, two faiths, and two different sorts of humanity. Thus the libretto was quite serviceable, though it seldom conveys a sense of spiritual reality. Handel penetrated beneath the shabby poetry with the aid of the miracle we so often observe in the great music dramatists: the music changes and transfigures the meaning of the words, and the story thereby acquires the quality of a true myth which at its best is grave and compelling.