George Frideric Handel_Dover Books on Music

by Paul Henry Lang

  [3]

  WHEN THE Baroque was “rediscovered” by serious musicians, who with the reactivation of the harpsichord did such splendid work in bringing this vast store of great music before the public, the execution of ornamentation and embellishment seemed to be the supreme test—and problem—of Baroque music-making. Those musicians took the elaborate superstructure of ornaments that cover keyboard music, in particular, terribly seriously; scarcely a single note was permitted to remain unadorned. By regarding ornamentation as something primarily expressive of sentiment and fancy, which it was their duty to place in its context, these enthusiastic pioneers of Baroque performance practice promoted the agré-ments into a separate and virtually independent branch of musical design. It is indisputable that the ornaments were an essential part of Baroque music and that they made the da capo aria into something quite different from what it appears when repeated literally. But surely we must distinguish between the lute-descended game of decorative tinkling necessitated by the inability of plucked instruments to nurture tones much beyond their momentary appearance, and the sustained melodic phrases composed for voice, violin, and organ. The little French dance pieces require some sort of ornament on practically every beat, especially in the slow movements; an arching aria melody needs far less. Ornament is justified only in proportion to its formal inherence in the musical line it enhances. At the same time, ornament can give a background from which the melody emerges more significant because its elements are lengthened, minced, repeated, and so on, thereby raising it above its everyday existence. Ornamentation can be routine, but it can also be pure inspiration, and technique can lead to invention just as ornaments can endow a flat architectural surface with meaning. By study of contemporary scores and writings these ornaments can be ascertained and reconstructed; nevertheless the dangers attending their application are numerous. Singers, players, and conductors unfamiliar with the style or not possessed of creative imagination will either go astray or will indulge in little more than mechanical application of the known principles. On the other hand, composing musicologists are insufferably dull and often a menace. The only solution seems to be to entrust the ornamentation to musicologically informed composers or players, a very rare breed.

  There is still another obstacle in the way of our understanding: our sense for, and appreciation of, melodic design, which is opposed to the breaking up of a flowing melody by too many ornaments. The highly ornamental Baroque melody already appeared somewhat artificial to Burney: “So changed is the style of Dramatic Music, since Handel’s own period, that almost all his songs seem scientinc”—i.e. contrived. Clearly, what is called for is a compromise by which a modest rather than extensive use of ornaments should be restored to the arias. We do have a few good examples of the ornamentation Handel expected from his singers and used in his own playing, and there is a large literature on its practice and application. Nevertheless, I do not find it advisable to restore these beyond a certain degree. We must remember that Handel was to some extent a captive of a custom that was largely the result of the virtuosity—and vanity—of the pampered Italian singers. On the other hand, his melodic design is so ample, his use of what Doni and other theorists called the “excessive intervals” gave his melody such expressiveness that it is in little need of emendations. Any elaborate ornamentation, especially the unaccompanied vocal cadenzas, is likely to result in mannerism. We can no longer contribute anything but more or less tasteful cliches, and since clichés abound in any well-settled style, we might leave well enough alone, especially since we have Burney’s testimony that Handel was opposed to excessive ornamentation. A modicum of ornamentation is welcome, but only persons with impeccable musicianship and stylistic sense should attempt it. An absence of ornaments is infinitely preferable to poor or mechanical ones.

  [4]

  THE FIRST requirement for judicious performance is a good score. The task of restoring an old and abused score, to provide an unexceptionable, “definitive” musical text, is always difficult, calling for sound scholarship, a high sense of responsibility and integrity, and profound musicianship. In Handel’s case the difficulties dwarf anything an editorial board ordinarily has to face. The historian is dealing with a Bruckner magnified a hundredfold. But while Bruckner patched endlessly, it would not have occurred to him to make a quodlibet of his symphonies, shifting the trio of the scherzo in the Second Symphony to the Seventh or vice versa; yet this is exactly what Handel did in his oratorios. Every revival changed the physiognomy of the work, sometimes radically. The editors must decide where to find a resting place for the eternally peregrinating pieces. It is easy to excise a Chandos Anthem from an oratorio, but what about a chorus that everyone knows, let us say, from Judas Maccabaeus, which in reality belongs in Esther? What shall be its fate? Another difficulty in preparing artistically correct editions is created by the frequent absence of figuring in the bass. Since Handel was his own performer, he needed only “reminders,” which we must interpret and elaborate.

  “The concealment of truth is the only indecorum known to scholarship,” said Westermarck, but the editors of Handel’s works did not honestly try to be decorous. Friedrich Chrysander was a distinguished musical scholar; in his day there were few to equal his learning and none even to approximate his industry and his devotion to the cause. He dedicated his whole life to the collection and publication of Handel’s works, and his tenacity, his refusal to bow before superior forces, and his courage in adversity were of Handelian proportions. But he was an autocrat, a law into himself, who often made his selection according to his desires, who altered and revised at will, and who even falsified documents to suit his purposes. The old Händelgesellschaft edition is anything but complete and reliable, as anyone who browses in the British Museum and the Fitzwilliam Museum soon discovers. Chrysander could not, of course, acquire the original manuscripts, which were in the King’s Music Library, but he did acquire a set of copies, the so-called conducting scores, later deposited in the Hamburg Library. These are of course very valuable, but only if collated with the originals, the sketches, and other copies (of which there are several), as well as with the various editions of the librettos; for the other sources contain many modifications by Handel himself, and they also contain additional music which, of course, is of exceptional importance. All these sources were available to Chrysander and he consulted many, yet both he and Seiffert relied too much on secondary sources, as have, indeed, even present-day German editors.

  The conducting scores in Hamburg convey largely post-Handelian practices fostered by John Christopher Smith, Jr. While Smith undoubtedly acted from authentic first-hand experience, his performances inevitably reflected the conceptions of one a generation removed from the original scene. Larsen, who examined this question thoroughly (Handel’s Messiah ), came to the conclusion that the Hamburg scores, while undeniably copies that served for actual performances, “were not used by Handel himself.” One discovers repeatedly that Chrysander, though mentioning autograph scores, proceeded from some later edition without using the manuscript score. In addition, the heroic editor of the hundred-volume Handelgesellschaft set was quite arbitrary in his decisions as to what to accept and what to reject. One of his worst failings was his bland disregard of Handel’s own directions. If he did not like an adagio marking he changed it to andante or vice versa, inserting his own directions, furthermore, without distinguishing them from Handel’s. Therefore the old collected edition, though a magnificent achievement, and in part of excellent quality, is badly in need of replacement. It is not without irony that this cavalier editor had his own troubles with his sub-editors. The preparation of the first volume of the Händelgesellchaft edition was entrusted to Julius Rietz, a fine cellist and reputable conductor. Chrysander’s discovery that Rietz, a stranger to the scholarly process, paid little attention to Handel’s instructions, even “considered them worthless,” earned Rietz a sour epitaph in the preface to the very first volume of the Gesamtausgabe. Chrysander re
sented any form of criticism but was always ready to upbraid others.

  The Novello scores are so lacking in elementary care that they cannot be considered, and as to the vocal scores Oskar Hagen concocted for the Göttingen Handel performances, they are wildly incongruous specimens of German theatrical Expressionism of 1920 vintage. The trouble with Hagen was that, though a distinguished art historian, he was an amateur musicologist and musician, unfamiliar with operatic history and dramaturgy, who approached the Baroque from the point of view of the 20th-century theatre. This led to frightful mangling of the scores; the da capo arias were left hanging in the air, the tonal scheme was dislocated, recitatives were cut to the bone in the mistaken belief that they were insignificant connecting links, and so on. The unfortunate Göttingen “reconstructions” were abandoned as their falsity was recognized, and the initiative passed from the amateurs into the hands of professionals, who are presently engaged in the editing of a new critical collection of Handel’s works. It remains to be seen how this new Hallische Händelausgabe will cope with the many problems, prejudices, and malpractices that for two hundred years have obscured the life and works of Handel.

  [5]

  EVEN IF we are to be provided with an excellent critical edition of the scores, the performer is still faced with many grave decisions that no one can solve for him. The editor’s duty is to provide the materials in as complete a form as possible. He may make recommendations concerning cuts and other details of performance, but the final responsibility for the presentation of a score rests with the conductor. If we are to enjoy Handel we must definitely reduce the proportions of many a large oratorio or opera. Poe was right: there is a time limit to our capability for being thrilled. Even if we leave aside the well-founded doubt that there ever was in Handel’s time a great oratorio performed with all the numbers now associated with it, we must admit that not infrequently in his dramatic works a high exhilaration subsides into a sense of fatigue or unconcern. We have called attention to Handel’s tendency to lose interest once the dénouement has taken place, to the often perfunctory mopping-up operations to provide the expected happy ending for which he had a distaste. But selection is very difficult and seldom satisfies all parties. It depends, among other things, on the legitimacy of the additions, for they were often intended to satisfy a popular singer or reward a Handelian favorite or suit a substitute. With a little exaggeration we may say that no two performances of an oratorio were the same; there were external changes, cuts, insertions, transpositions, exchanges, and new numbers. The editors must take into consideration every variant, the conductor can use only one of them.

  Even if a judicious choice is made from among the accretions, many of Handel’s scores are of a length so excessive as to be no longer bearable for us. He shared with other Baroque composers a propensity for what seems to us disproportionate length; the St. Matthew Passion would also gain in dramatic force and plain musical digestibility by the omission of several arias, no matter how beautiful. The palate of the present day is not schooled to so voluminous exercise as a four-hour oratorio or Passion. These revenants from the ages must be pruned. Of course such a statement is tantamount to heresy, lèse majesté, or, as they might say at court-martials, conduct unbecoming a scholar. But there is a vast difference between participating in a cult and enjoying a great work of art. In the case of both Bach and Handel the large number of arias, especially when given to the same type of voice, creates a feeling of unwarranted length that makes intelligent cutting mandatory. Some of these pieces undoubtedly represent the old Italian custom of the arie da baule, the reserve arias the composer always had on hand for unexpected contingencies. These reserves should never be committed in toto. The ideal and musically most profitable way, and one that would preserve all the good music without unduly trying the listener’s ability to absorb what he hears, would be to use the good variants on alternate occasions. The very existence of the variants almost dictates this procedure, and no violence is done to those dramatically sprawling works. However, it cannot be done in the manner of Sir Thomas Beecham or Oskar Hagen. Choruses and accompanied recitatives are usually firm constituents of the dramatic plan, few of them can be eliminated this side of the post-dénouement sections of the oratorios. It is in the arias that most of the pruning must be done, with a careful weighing of the tonal relationship. A case in point is afforded by the so-called simile arias. Though they are often very beautiful, as their illustrative purpose usually tempted Handel to compose fine descriptive music, they are also often completely extraneous to the drama. Those who insist on unabridged Passions and oratorios should examine the situation that prevails in the theatre, where scholars accept the necessity of making cuts in classic works to suit their length to present-day performance. Shakespearean plays often need trimming as much as large Baroque scores; their exceptional length presents the same problems and hazards.

  [6]

  NOTHING IS MORE ILLOGICAL, not to say asinine, than the invoking of the preposterous hypothesis by arrangers of Bach and Handel that “had those composers lived today they would undoubtedly have availed themselves of our modern resources.”153 No question about it, and Pope Gregory the Great, had he lived today, would have composed juicy organ accompaniments to his chants. But they are not living today, history is not retroactive, and one does not copy Giotto in the pointillistic manner. Allied to this anachronistic concept is an even more incredible view: Handel was found wanting in expressiveness, even intelligibility, so the Victorians decided to subject the scores to systematic “clarification” by means of “additional accompaniments.” They based their argument on incontrovertible precedents: Mozart also reworked Handel and so did other distinguished composers.

  Such reworkings and transcriptions are justified by some on the ground that what matters is the content; only the philologists of music, the musicologists, it is said, would cling rigidly to the antiquated and primitive exterior. And yet it is the artists among all concerned who should cling to the faithful “exterior,” for that exterior is the form. They ought to understand these things, they ought to know the importance of form. The musicologist is equally interested in “content,” but he believes, as do all cultivated performers, that content cannot be conveyed when taken out of context. All the transcribers and arrangers, from Hiller to Goossens, forget that the composer does not offer content alone but also mood and form, and the three are indivisible. They could learn something from such a poet-scholar as Matthew Arnold (On Translating Homer), who eloquently proved that a translation in a different form is no longer a translation but an entirely different elaboration of the same subject. The same is true of the reorchestrated or inflated transcriptions and arrangements, for indeed, these arrangements are like literal translations of poetry into a foreign language; the original rhythms disappear, the verse loses its riverbed, the momentum its impetus. We know how rare a good transcription is, a musical event of a unique and fortuitous quality, which, as in the case of literature, should appear only when there is no other way to present the original work.

  Transcriptions can, of course, have their uses; Liszt’s piano versions of Schubert’s songs and Bach’s organ works made them known and appreciated, leading people to the originals. But even the best transcription cannot be used for the establishment of values, for it is an amalgam in which author and arranger are not separable. Davenant and Dryden came close to destroying Shakespeare’s poetry, yet they were convinced that they had improved The Tempest. Equally earnest were the musicians who reconstructed Handel, not realizing that it is a crime to underscore, color, and thus coarsen what Handel wanted only to be divined. The citing of Mozart’s arrangements of Handel’s scores disregards many facts. In the first place, the reorchestration of these scores was not Mozart’s idea, he was commissioned by Baron van Swieten to bring them up to date, and he was paid a fee, which as always he needed badly. In the late 18th century they knew only one style, the contemporary; little if any old music was played, and of course t
he historical sense and a regard for stylistic propriety had yet to make their appearance. Even decades later, a Mendelssohn and a Schumann found it advisable to add a piano accompaniment to Bach’s Chaconne. Needless to say, when Mozart undertook such a commission he always produced something brilliant and worthwhile; he went about his work with skill and seriousness and the Handelian transcriptions appropriately have their own Köchel numbers. But Mozart’s version of Handel is like Pope’s translation of Homer: an excellent work without being a good translation. Mozart’s language is not Handelian, and his personality is far removed from Handel’s. As Larsen puts it: “The Valley of the shadow of death [in Messiah] has become a well-kept cemetery garden.” Beethoven, with all his respect for Mozart, remarked about the restoration that “Handel would have survived without it.”

  The refurbishings started with Starzer and Hiller, followed by Mozart; then came the Victorians, and the 20th-century virtuoso transcribers. Early in the 19th century the great Funeral Ode was converted in Germany to a syrupy “oratorio” called Feelings at the Tomb of Jesus, and its tremendous opening number chopped into pieces. Many a Novello score falls into this category. Mendelssohn’s organ accompaniments to Israel in Egypt were greeted with hosannas by Justus Thibaut, who welcomed the “cleansing” of church music from instruments.

  We are tempted to suggest a reactivation of Lycurgus’s law which forbade the “cobbling and heeling” of the plays of the great Attic dramatists, but we remember that Handel himself was an arch transcriber and arranger; once more we must guard against absolutes. This is especially important in the operas, for in the 18th century, roles were composed for individual artists and individual theatres. In addition, since in the absence of any agreement on standards, tuning was altogether an arbitrary affair, every theatre had its own pitch. The difference could be considerable. An opera composed for Venice, where the pitch was high, could not be performed in Rome, where it was low, without alterations and transcriptions. It was the local maestro’s task to carry out the changes, and as Telemann and others adjusted Handel’s operas for Hamburg, so Handel, in his capacity as music director of the Royal Academy of Music, arranged other composers’ scores for his theatre. But he did the same with his own works whenever the cast changed, when other circumstances so required, or when he had second thoughts. Many of these transcriptions were carried out with his wonted skill, though in not a few instances, especially when hurried, he simply transposed, leaving it to the singer to adjust the details to suit the changed situation.