Chrysander is positive that Handel met Lotti in Venice, and if Lotti was there at the time—which, although he travelled a good deal, seems extremely likely because of his position as organist and choirmaster at St. Mark’s—they could not have failed to meet: Handel never missed a good organist. At the time of Handel’s visit Lotti was already a highly admired composer and his works were heard all over Italy. Even though his international reputation dates from later years, his remarkable church music in the noblest choral traditions coming after 1719 when he had abandoned opera, the admirable qualities of his music were fully in evi-dence in 1709-10 when Handel met him.
The regal pathos of this admirable musician who was the final link in the chain formed by Monteverdi, Cavalli, and Cesti, his superb dramatic choruses and penetrating characterizations confronted Handel with the ideal he had travelled so far to find. Lotti was a kindred soul, among the few composer-dramatists who avoided the parti buffe, being solely interested in darkly pessimistic subjects. A most versatile musician, he was equally at home in the late madrigal or in smoothly flowing contrapuntal choral music. Incidentally, while Agrippina ran at San Grisostomo, other opera houses, presided over by Gasparini and Lotti, were in session. Here Handel could observe performed on a competent professional level what he had seen done in Hamburg in the most haphazard way: both Gasparini and Lotti were composer-producers, which was to become Handel’s status in England.
The famous Venetian conservatories—Mendicanti, Pietà, Incurabili, SS. Giovanni e Paolo—all had distinguished resident maestros and superbly trained orchestras. Visitors from foreign lands expressed unstinted admiration of the excellence of the performances of these orphaned children. The students were not restricted to the convent-conservatory, and an orchestra made up of girls and conducted by one of the maestros was often hired for private concerts and festivities. Handel surely visited them, especially the Pietà, because his friend Domenico Scarlatti was a frequent caller there. Francesco Gasparini, maestro at the Pietà, a close friend of Alessandro Scarlatti’s, was Domenico’s principal teacher. The numerous churches also had well-appointed music at their services composed in both styles of the “bilingual” masters.
There was still another form of vocal music, not yet sufficiently investigated, that undoubtedly contributed to Handel’s exceptionally light and flexible choral idiom: the post-Renaissance madrigal, which was particularly admired in Venice. The refined miniature work in the madrigals of Steffani, Bononcini, Lotti, Caldara, and others did not go unnoticed by Handel; the delicate, fragrant, and very modern madrigal, “Bid the maids the youths provoke to join the dance,” in Hercules, is a good example of the type. The idiom is also in evidence in those of his choral numbers in which he expanded a smaller to a larger ensemble, such as the duets that were converted into full four-part movements.
Little, if any, attention has been paid to the effect upon Handel of the instrumental music he heard in Venice, both at the church concerts and at the opera, where concerted arias displayed writing for the strings that went even beyond the requirements of the older concerto. In fact, though the influence was mutual, we must conclude that opera contributed a great deal to the subsequent development of the concerto. The “motto aria” (it was Riemann who established the notion, calling it Devisenarie), in which the opening of the principal theme in the da capo aria is “inscribed” in advance, was clearly the origin of the initial tutti in the concerto. Though the device was not unknown in Hamburg, Handel’s frequent use of it in opera dates from his Italian sojourn.
Among the famous conservatory maestros one in particular must be mentioned, though he does not seem to have made a particular impression on Handel. Marc Pincherle, in his great monograph devoted to Vivaldi, definitely established that Vivaldi was active at the Pietà when Handel was in Venice. Wherever Vivaldi was there was abundant music making. Handel could not have avoided the Red Priest, yet, strangely, there is scarcely a trace in his music of the very personal style of Vivaldi. This is puzzling, the more so because it was precisely the young Vivaldi who attracted Bach so much, whereas Handel seems to have ignored the fiery Italian’s vigorous and adventurous music. With his good eye for “usable” material he must have spotted many a sharply profiled theme in Vivaldi’s works, especially since both Opus 1 and the fine Opus 2 were available in print, published in 1705 and early in 1709, respectively. Moreover, Walsh began publishing Vivaldi as early as 1712, and Matthew Dubourg, Handel’s violinist friend, and other English virtuosos played his concertos not infrequently. Throughout his life Handel remained faithful to the line that culminated in Corelli’s distilled and classically poised works. There were others, such as Albinoni, from whom he learned a great deal, but the arch master of the late Italian Baroque does not figure among them.18
This instrumental music of the High Baroque was not empty virtuosity or mere playful romping, as Stravinsky, Dallapiccola, and some other modern masters so contemptuously regard it. In the first place, church sonata and church concerto were not casual designations. It is perhaps difficult for us, accustomed as we are to a noncommittal, standardized, and mushy organ sound, to the atrocious preludizing of the average organist, to the anemic voluntaries and offertories of that anomaly of modern times, the professional church composer who certainly is not “bilingual,” to imagine the noble and vibrant sound played on exquisite instruments during the service. For indeed, some of the choir’s functions were taken from it and assigned to the instruments. Such instrumental compositions may appear at various places during Mass, not only during the Offertory. Mazzaferrata, Vitali, Bassani, Ruggieri, Legrenzi, Albinoni, Torelli, Caldara, and a host of others may be mere names to us (though Corelli and Vivaldi are beginning to take their rightful place in the repertory), but to Handel their music was a deeply satisfying experience. It was here that he learned the true handling of the four-part string orchestra, no longer basically a trio with the tenor part hobbling along between alto and bass; the viola part was made a full partner and the setting was genuine quartet writing. The forms were classically clear, the harmony opulent, the melody wide-ranging, and the sound always rich and “filling.” A glance at Handel’s E minor Concerto Grosso will show what he learned from the Italians, for this glowing pathos, this cantability, this elevated tone was their creation.
How little this great art is known and appreciated can be seen from a statement in one of the English-language Handel biographies to the effect that the overture to Agrippina must have been a revelation to the Venetians, whose sinfonie the author judges vastly inferior to Handel’s prelude. It was this music, the stately church sonatas, suites, concertos, and sinfonie which that indefatigable and shrewd researcher, Dr. Burney, no antiquarian but a champion of living music, characterized as being of “great dignity” and “mellifluous voice.” He was so intrigued by the music of such masters as Bassani that he visited the eminent Padre Martini, “who was old enough to have formed his opinion from those who had often heard him [Bassani] perform,” to get more information about these little-known composers. And it was of one of them that Prunières, great connoisseur of Venetian music, made the significant statement that is valid for the whole school. What emerges from this music, he says, is “une âme d‘une noblesse, d’une serenité, d‘une gravité religieuse qui n’est pas sans rapport avec celle d’un Palestrina.”
The remark about the startling novelty and superiority of Handel’s overture to Agrippina is utterly naive. To cite one example, the magnificent Sinfonia avanti l’opera in Antonio Maria Bononcini’s Il Trionfo di Camilla (1696), later famous even in London, is a rousing concert symphony, modern, brilliant, and gloriously euphonious. Moreover, it clearly operates with form-defining tonal relations. Scarlatti’s fine Italian overtures were also fully developed by the opening of the 18th century. Indeed, it was in Venice that Handel learned that brio insolito which is so attractive in his own concertos and which he introduced, as did the Venetians, into his opera orchestra. It was here too (though he had a f
oretaste of it in Naples) that he learned about orchestral accompaniment with independent motifs as opposed to the largely colla parte manner, not only in overtures and ritornels, but in arias and accompanied recitatives, thus acquiring rich new means of expressing dramatic commentary. The mighty tuttis falling upon a monodic scene, the brilliant “trumpet arias” in which the voice is pitted against a concertante trumpet, similar ones with oboe or violin, and many other modern instrumental devices were all derived from Venetian instrumental music.
One would think that, having acquired mastery of Italian music and the admiration of Italians, Handel would have rested content. His mind and his music are organized and settled, the Italian pattern absorbed and utilized. Already in Agrippina, which still shows some elements of the erstwhile cantor’s art, the conversion is nevertheless achieved. Even the recitative is no mere inorganic parlando; the melodic substance is formed, the phrases are complemented lineally and metrically, the basso continuo accompaniment often giving way to a differentiated and expressive orchestra. But above all, Handel had made the suavità, the dolcezza, the durezze of this beguiling musical language of Italy completely his own. The road was open to a career that was surely to place even Lotti in the shadow. Yet Handel abandoned Italy.
[7]
AS WE HAVE SAID, there are a number of conflicting reports and interpretations concerning Handel’s relationship with Steffani, the most amazing of these being Handel’s own statement as reported by Sir John Hawkins. “When I first arrived in Hanover, I was a young man under twenty; I was acquainted with the merits of Steffani and he had heard of me.” Did Hawkins misquote Handel or did Handel’s memory play him tricks? One would very much hesitate to mistrust that marvelous apparatus which was Handel’s memory, and Hawkins was a conscientious scholar; but then this suggests that Handel first met Steffani on a hitherto unrecorded and undocumented visit to Hanover during the Hamburg period, that is, before he went to Italy. The possibility of such a “residence” in Hanover in 1704 or 1705 cannot be ruled out. Whatever the situation, the two certainly met in the Ottoboni circle, and in 1709-10 Steffani was in Venice, where he heard Agrippina.
This enigmatic person played a decisive role in Handel’s life, both artistically and personally. Of obscure origin, and possessed of an insatiable Wanderlust and great ambitions, Steffani actually received his first musical education in Germany. At an early age he turned up in Munich, where he studied with Kerll, later continuing his apprenticeship in Rome with Ercole Bernabei, the excellent Benevoli disciple who, incidentally, also resided in Munich. Subsequently court organist in Munich (1675), in 1678-79 the inquisitive Steffani repaired to Paris, where he lost no time in getting thoroughly acquainted with Lully’s art. Then begins the other aspect of his career: the Italian musician is ordained a priest in 1680.
At first we see only the not unfamiliar figure of the opera-composing cleric, producing operas by the half dozen, but also some very fine church music and cantatas. In 1688 Steffani went to Hanover as court conductor, raising the musical establishment to considerable excellence. By this time he was a famous man, equally renowned for his music and his intellect. He was the third member of that extraordinary intellectual triumvirate that included the Electress Sophia and the philosopher Leibniz. His very personal and refined style exerted a wide influence on German composers—we have seen that both Mattheson and Telemann considered him the most accomplished melodist of the day—but Zachow, Keiser, and Handel were also strongly affected by this suave melody. At the time Handel met him in Venice, Steffani was, with Legrenzi, Lotti, and Fux, among the great Baroque classicists who preserved the traditions of polyphony while belonging to the dramatic avant-garde. In spite of his long residence in Germany, his early education there, and his many connections with German musicians, Steffani’s music is Venetian of a somewhat earlier cast. There are an uncommon number of arias in his operas—Sfty, sixty, and even seventy in a single work—but they are mostly continuo arias, and his recitative is perfunctory. There are, however, many attractive melodies, especially in the duets. His chamber duets, which far surpass even those in the operas, are, indeed, together with his very elevated church music, his main contribution to the style of the period. Haas rightly considers them “the pinnacle of three-part Baroque counterpoint.” Steffani was a born lyricist with little sense for the truly dramatic.
In spite of his extensive musical output and his remarkable ability as conductor and organizer, Steffani’s main business and vocation was politics and diplomacy; he was passionately interested in it, and intrigue was in his bones. The high and mighty, while appreciative of his musical talents, favored him because of his political shrewdness and savoir-faire. As Papal envoy, he was constantly on the move from one German court to another, and if not on a mission he occupied high political posts, such as administrative head of the government of the Palatinate, or Apostolic Vicar for the North of Germany, with his seat in Hanover. Wherever he could combine these functions with a resident court musician’s office he did so, for his love of music was as genuine as his gifts, but diplomacy always ranked ahead of the musician’s career—his real ambition was to become a cardinal. That these political tasks were of extraordinary magnitude is well indicated by his diplomatic papers, filling dozens of as yet unexplored dossiers in the Vatican.
Steffani may have been a lover of political intrigue, but as a musician and man of the world he was all amiability. Though thirty years Handel’s senior and a very famous composer, Steffani had nothing but praise for the young Saxon and it was he who warmly recommended Handel for the position in Hanover that he was about to vacate. This brings us to what is perhaps the most perplexing question in a life that is full of them: why did Handel decide to leave Italy?
The external circumstances are very simple. Prince Ernest of Hanover, a passionate amateur of music, was residing at this time in Venice. The Prince not only heard Agrippina but was so enchanted by it that he attended the performances at San Grisostomo practically every night throughout its long run. Convinced that this German who could outdo the Italians in their very own field was the ideal replacement for Steffani, he extended to Handel an invitation to come to Hanover. Baron Kielmansegg, the Elector’s Master of the Horse, who accompanied Prince Ernest, concurred, and so did the illustrious court maestro, Steffani. The invitation was accepted, and Handel departed for Hanover. But surely this decision hides very serious deliberations and inner struggles, though as usual the imperturbable Saxon shows no outward sign of it.
The Italian triumphs had begun to reverberate beyond the Alps. In 1708 the twenty-three-year-old was already spoken of in Hamburg as “the famous Monsieur Händel, loved by all Italy,” and the tremendous success of Agrippina carried his name all over Europe. Every Italian opera house would have been at his feet, every noble house glad to receive him, for did he not triumph in the very bailiwick of Gasparini and Lotti? Clearly, Cardinal Panfili’s cantata was prophetic: Handel was about to become Orpheus aetatis. Yet he left Italy. Why?
No one really knows. No historical scholar nowadays can pretend to that immanent and infallible sense of knowledge that infuses Carlyle’s writings with their dogmatic charm. The usual explanations of restlessness, or whim, or patriotism are once more inadequate. To understand this immigrant to England, who for nearly half a century thereafter was not “restless,” and whose “patriotism” became altogether English, it is necessary to understand the forces that made him forsake Italy, and in these matters there is a large array of such interesting inferences as we may choose to draw, two of which seem to dominate.
It seems to us that one of the keys to Handel’s decision is to be found in a brief statement he made to Sir John Hawkins. Reminiscing on his animated career, he said to the historian that what he particularly appreciated in England was that there a man’s religious views were his private affair.19 It is an extraordinary statement, coming as it does from a German Lutheran, but we are convinced that religious-moral reasons strongly influenced his de
cision to leave Italy. This is altogether in harmony with his previous and subsequent acts.
That Handel remained a steadfast Protestant is supported by the fact that although while in Italy he wrote works that were within the orbit of Italian Catholic music, he never did anything to identify himself other than musically with Italy and her religion. We can go farther than that. Handel not only composed Italian Catholic music, he penetrated to its most intimate and characteristic region: the Marian cult, surely the most remote to Protestants. Such a work as his hymn to the Virgin, Ah! Che troppo ineguali (among the accompanied sacred cantatas), is a direct descendant of the laudi, and his tender Salve Regina shows that he might have followed the example of John Christian Bach, Kerll, and Froberger, who found this spirit irresistible. Percy Young, in his brief but perceptive biographical sketch in Gerald Abraham’s Handel, a Symposium, noted this “unmistakable chivalrous devotion before the Queen of Heaven,” but, as we have said above, we cannot agree with his conclusions that this was an indication of Catholic leanings on the part of Handel that might have led to a conversion had he stayed a while longer, That Handel was attracted to the elaborate Catholic ritual cannot be doubted; but he also had unshakable convictions, which no amount of proselytizing could overcome.
We have noted that the Italians were—and still are—remarkably tolerant of the religious convictions of artists; they accepted nonbelievers even in Vatican circles without the slightest hindrance. This does not mean, though, that they did not attempt conversion, and often with suc-cess. Handel’s case was no exception. Mainwaring, though using no documents, states this rather convincingly—and rather movingly.
George Frideric Handel_Dover Books on Music Page 14
