The fourth season opened October 27, 1722, with revivals of Muzio Scevola and Floridante; then on January 12, 1723, in the King’s presence, Handel’s new opera, Ottone, was first performed, with the new prima donna in the cast. Haym’s rather wordy and complicated libretto did not prevent Handel from composing an opera that clearly showed who was master in the King’s Theatre on the Haymarket. The success was resounding, and rightfully so—Ottone is a great opera. Everyone spoke of “Mr. Hendel’s new opera,” and the final piece in the fine overture became the “C-sharp minor Prelude” of the age, played in every English drawing room where there was a harpsichord, though as Burney said, it was also played on “every imaginable instrument.” The title role was sung by Senesino, to whom Handel allotted some exquisitely turned romances, of which “Ritorna, o dolce amore,” is one of his most beguiling melodies; whenever he turns to the siciliana this special inspiration is bound to result. There are a number of these wonderful elegies (as well as some commonplace arias), and the admired castrato must have overwhelmed his public with them, but the best dramatic music again goes to the women, Teofane, Matilda, and Gismonda. Teofane’s role, designed for La Cuzzoni, is always in the highest sphere of the art of bel canto, and the little, squat, and homely soprano conquered her audience to the last man. In “Falsa imagine” Handel composed for her one of his greatest arias, embellished by a fine cello obbligato, and she also sings one of those bewitching sicilianas, “Affani del penser.” While Teofane is gentle and maidenly, Matilda (Mrs. Robinson) vacillates between despair and hatred, an entirely different type of woman who sings entirely different music. The third woman, Gismonda (Durastanti), is one of those imperious matriarchs and devoted mothers whom we shall meet in Handel’s oratorios. Emireno, a pirate, sung by Boschi, is a robust bass part—he is a man, not an evirato. Ottone is delicately polyphonic in structure and often displays romantic-sounding chromaticism.
This opera was a blow to Bononcini, but Handel was not satisfied with one blow. When Bononcini’s Erminia could not measure up to the success of Ottone, Handel immediately followed with his Flavio (May 14, 1723), which, though a mediocre work, kept alive the favorable impression created by Ottone, further undermining Bononcini’s position. The extreme passions and dramatic scenes of Haym’s libretto are uneasily yoked with Handel’s attempted imitation of Bononcini’s light manner. What the public liked about Bononcini was that his arias did not tax their musical sensibilities; they were songs, short and dainty, easily assimilated and retained. Flavio has some good music here and there, but on the whole it must be placed low in the list of Handel’s dramatic works. The fourth season ended with it, a season that also offered Ariosti’s first London opera, Cajo Marzio Coriolano.
The fifth season opened on November 27, 1723, with Bononcini’s new Farnace, followed by a revival of Ottone, and Ariosti’s Vespasiano. Then, on February 20, 1724, came the coup de grâce, Handel’s Giulio Cesare, with the remarkable cast headed by Senesino, Cuzzoni, and Boschi. The impact of this masterpiece proved to be too much for Bononcini. His Calfurnia was produced in April, but by that time he had withdrawn from the Academy’s artistic triumvirate, leaving Ariosti and Handel in charge, and as Handel became the unquestioned master of the operatic roost, the Italian began to fade away, for the time being satisfied with the position of master of music in the household of the Duchess of Marlborough. He still had his champions, however, and the cabal was by no means at an end. There were other casualties stemming from the éclat of the great productions. Durastanti, unable to stand the competition offered by the much younger Cuzzoni, left England, and Anastasia Robinson also withdrew from the stage. Mrs. Robinson was an intelligent, well-educated, and pleasant woman (she gets a clean bill of health even from Sir Newman, who found that “her morals from first to last were above reproach”), a good actress, and a fair singer, but her voice could not nearly equal that of any of the Italians, let alone Cuzzoni’s. Though a veteran Handelian, upon her withdrawal she joined the Bononcini camp.
Giulio Cesare, composed on a very good libretto by Haym, is one of Handel’s outstanding operas. This time Handel created a true heroic role, even though it was for a castrato. Caesar is in turn contemplative (his superb arioso as he stands before Pompey’s urn—in G-sharp minor!), bold (the mighty aria “Al lampo dell’armi”), and amorous (when he awakens the sleeping Cleopatra). Cleopatra is an enchantress, her rich coloratura part giving her a dazzling countenance. Handel’s characterization of this flaming woman is one of the miracles of the operatic literature. Intending to use Caesar as a tool against Ptolemy, she beseeches Venus, in the spacious aria “Venere bella”—one of those pieces with Handel’s long-breathed melodies—to give her charms to attract the Roman, yet she is always confident of her inborn power over men. But when she really falls in love with Caesar, Handel changes the revengeful schemer into a woman despairing of the safety of her beloved, begging the gods not for charms but for his protection. “Se pietà di me non dissente” is one of the great moments in the history of opera. Then when this fascinating creature is captured by Ptolemy and brought before him in shackles, she seethes with rage and vindictiveness, matching the violence of her temporary master. Finally, defeated, desperate, and forlorn, she sings to herself the ineffable song “Piangerò la sorte mia.” The other parts are also most ably characterized. Cornelia is noble and restrained, Sextus ardent with youth, Ptolemy a brutal egotist, and Achilla a cold opportunist. The contrast between the sophisticated love music of Caesar and Cleopatra and the direct and coarse approach of Ptolemy to Cornelia is striking.
Giulio Cesare is full of vivid dramatic scenes, some of them of the festive “grand opera” type that would make this great work especially suitable for modern audiences. The opening chorus of Egyptians foreshadows similar scenes in the oratorios, and the ending of the opera is equally spectacular. Those who consider secco recitative an antiquated and makeshift convention should study the scene where Caesar is trapped. The whole scene, in which the emperor goes to a tryst only to find himself ambushed, is in secco (which leads to the great aria “Al lampo”), creating the most vivid tension. Elsewhere, the orchestral accompaniment is rich, since in addition to the usual complement Handel calls on harp, gamba, theorbo, and virtuoso French horn parts; obviously he wanted to create a lush “oriental” climate. Cleopatra’s aria “V’adoro pupille,” one of those aromatic night pieces with muted strings, is as modern as late Verdi.
Handel kept the fires going as the sixth season, opening on October 31, 1724, got under way with a new opera, Tamerlano. Haym’s libretto is quite good, though its theme, that nobility of spirit will win over pride, is difficult to realize in opera. Here the principal role, that of Bajazet, is given to a tenor, hence it has force. This is the first great tenor role in opera. Handel was entirely successful in portraying Bajazet, a noble hero who dominates the opera; his antagonist, Tamerlano, sung by a new alto castrato, Pacini, is not nearly so convincing. On the other hand, Asteria (Cuzzoni) is a woman of flesh and blood. By and large Tamerlano is dramatically miscalculated. The final scene, Bajazet’s farewell and Asteria’s lament, is extraordinarily beautiful and poignant, but the love story is weak; Asteria is more convincing as the distraught daughter than as the lover. Andronico, sung by Senesino, is once more the Don Ottavio type; he sings beautiful music but is a puppet.
After a new opera by Ariosti (Artaserse), Giulio Cesare was revived with much success in January 1725, and on February 13 Handel produced the second masterpiece of the season, Rodelinda. Presented with the same cast, it was an instant success; in fact, next to Giulio Cesare, this was Handel’s most popular opera. Haym once more delivered a fair libretto of somewhat mysterious origin, but what mattered was that the plot was workable.40 Rodelinda deals with a subject destined to become a favorite: steadfastness of “conjugal love,” to quote the subtitle of several late 18th-century operas that were to inspire Beethoven. Haym rightly spotted a special sympathy for such loyalty and fortitude in the bachelor Hand
el and lost no time in exploiting it. Rodelinda is a strong and finely drawn character from the opening scene. Cuzzoni shone to great advantage in the role because Handel lavished warm and expressive music on the heroine, but the other characters are no less well conceived. Those who are puzzled by Handel’s attitude towards women should listen to Bertarido’s longing song, “Dove sei amato bene.” Even though written for Senesino, it expresses all the nuances a man pining for his beloved experiences. Similarly ardent and magnificent is the duet betwn Rodelinda and Ber-tarido, “Io t’abraccio.” The third act, with the prison scene, the wounding of Bertarido’s faithful servant, Rodelinda’s fainting, all this taking place at dusk, is romantic opera of a very modern cast. Unfortunately, the dénouement is very weak, though this does not inhibit the music, which remains on a high plane throughout the opera. There is also some discrepancy in the otherwise well-designed character of Grimoaldo (Boschi), whose eventual magnanimity is not quite convincing. Rodelinda abounds in the most exquisite nature scenes, with marvels of delicate orchestral coloring. This is one of Handel’s great operas that could be restored to the repertory by intelligent editing.
After these mighty exertions Handel rested for the moment, letting the season run its course. Rodelinda ran for fifteen nights and he could afford to let his old friend Ariosti try his fortunes with Dario, produced in April. Tamerlano was revived but had only three performances; the public was no longer satisfied with Handel’s lesser efforts. He also busied himself with the music director’s duties, writing the recitatives to El-pindia, a pasticcio of music by Leonardo Vinci and others. So the sixth season ended in June.
In the meantime Handel’s domestic situation had changed. Somewhere between July and December 1723 he acquired a house in Lower Brook Street, near Hanover Square, which remained his abode to the end of his life. Several of his scores had been published, and a number of his operas performed on the Continent.41 As his own situation solidified, the Academy’s deteriorated. When the South Sea Bubble had burst in the summer of 1720, the Academy’s stocks went with the rest. Rolli, in a letter to Giuseppe Riva that year, says that “our subscription [shares] could not fetch 30% cash value.”42 Already in 1721 the Academy began to experience financial difficulties, issuing calls for five per cent levies or assessments. Presently, to bolster the institution’s fortunes, the directors decided to provide a foil for Cuzzoni in the person of Faustina Bordoni, then a rising young soprano much admired in Italy and Germany. That Faustina was engaged with the idea of creating a rivalry, and hence some réclame for the Academy, is clear from the press notices that appeared months before her arrival, the London Journal plainly announcing that “a famous Italian Lady is coming over to rival Signiora Cuzzoni.” Since Faustina was not only a remarkable singer but a personable young woman, whereas La Cuzzoni was rotund and homely, a conflict was inevitable. The directors had not learned to avoid such rivalries and soon found that the two singers inspired warring factions similar to those figuring in the Handel-Bononcini contretemps, and in fact they became involved in that affair too. Quantz, the oracle of musical wisdom of the day, and Tosi, the greatest living authority on singing, both expressed themselves in terms of the highest admiration for the two sopranos, but both gave the edge to Faustina. Tosi could not forbear speculating on what would happen if Cuzzoni’s legato and portamento could be combined with Bordoni’s agility.
The seventh season, 1725-26, introduced two new Handel operas, Paolo Rolli reappearing in the role of staff librettist with less than felicitous results. His Scipione (March 12, 1726) is steeped in grave pathos which could not be sustained for long stretches, compelling Handel to indulge in distracting episodes. The heroine, Berenice, does come to life, and the opera, rather polyphonic in texture, has excellent instrumental pieces, among them the famous march that was parodied in Polly as “Brave boys, prepare.”
The next production, Alessandro (May 5), was performed eleven times in the month of May—an unheard-of record then as now for a new serious opera—but there was a good reason for it. Handel had been given the special task of catering to two prima donnas in the same opera (this was Faustina’s début), for both he and the directors hoped that the combination would so overwhelm the public that the Academy’s future would be assured. Dramaturgically the plan was very vulnerable, because equal favor had to be shown to both temperamental and jealous artists, but Rolli and Handel skilfully walked this tightrope by the careful planning of minutely balanced roles and correspondingly impartial dosage of good music for each of the stars. In addition, the two women’s situation vis-à- vis Senesino had to be equalized, and there was the fourth member of the Academy’s top quartet, Boschi. Accordingly, at first Alexander inclines to Rossana (Bordoni), whereupon Lisaura (Cuzzoni) is very much disappointed. The love music in the second act when Rossana awaits Alexander is Handel at his idyllic-pastoral best and the orchestration is an absolute delight. But now Lisaura has her moment (Rossana having conveniently gone to sleep) and, her love music being equally beguiling, it is the wakened Rossana’s turn to feel slighted. The great warrior is in a dilemma, upon which he expatiates in a sumptuous aria, “Vano amore”; it is a typical castrato aria, wondrous bel canto but not convincing drama. Finally, the Macedonian comes to the conclusion that the solution is to give up love altogether and concentrate on being king. However, before doing so he has another round with each of the songstresses in the form of finely wrought duets. The ladies also sing magnificent arias, every one of them carefully tailored to suit the particular voice. Now the librettist is in a dilemma of his own, because while the king’s noble and practical resolution may have saved a delicate situation, it fails to lead to the mandatory happy ending; therefore Alexander changes his mind and finally settles on Rossana, while Lisaura is compensated by a lesser king, Tassile of India. Thus was satisfied a cast whose aggregate emoluments amounted to many thousands of pounds per annum. Surprisingly enough, this tour de force of an opera is full of music of very high quality, of spectacular and animated scenes, and martial strains. Any opera house that could assemble the extraordinary cast demanded by Alessandro would create a stampede with this work even today.
The eighth season, which began on January 7, 1727, saw the three leading London opera composers in competition for the last time. Ariosti’s Lucio Vero, indifferently received, was followed by Handel’s Admeto (January 31), which once more filled the Haymarket Theatre, and at the end of the season Bononcini’s Astianatte closed the cycle. Admeto, putting in the field the incomparable quartet of stars, was greeted with unstinted admiration: eight performances within a month, and ten more during the rest of the season. Since, in addition, Ottone and Floridante were in the active repertory, Handel certainly had another profitable and prestigious year. The libretto, by either Rolli or Haym—or both—has potentially good theatrical qualities, but the drama itself is poorly constructed. Still, Handel’s now-dead, now-alive Alceste is not materially different from Gluck’s Eurydice, who also goes through such metamorphoses to no one’s objection. What is carried to a ridiculous extent in this libretto is the favorite Baroque opera trick of the “picture,” i.e. the likeness of the heroine (or less frequently of the hero) carried around for identification—and trouble; in this instance the game is complicated by inadvertently exchanged pictures. These weaknesses, added to a dénouement that is moral instead of dramatic, are near fatal for the play. Nevertheless, Handel made a great opera out of this farrago; the music is powerful and the individual scenes impressive. The very first scene, with the king raving on his sickbed surrounded by the furies, is uncommonly powerful, far surpassing the memorable scene in Gluck’s Orfeo with which it is often compared. Once more the women are masterfully characterized; they are in turn passionate, gentle, and jealous, and Handel is notably successful in deepening their conflict. Admeto contains so much surpassing music that it should be salvaged.
As the season ended, with Bononcini’s Astianatte, the rivalry of the two prime donne reached a climax in a nois
y and vulgar scandal that rocked the Academy, London society, and even the court. The Princess of Wales was a pained spectator as the two women, incited by the audience, fell upon each other with pummeling and hair pulling. The disorderly spectacle was brought about by the partisans who greeted the singing of their respective champion’s rival with catcalls, which of course infuriated the two women.
The year was marked by two important events. Handel became a naturalized British subject on February 20, and George I died on June 11 in Osnabrück, on his way to his beloved Hanover. The Prince of Wales was immediately proclaimed King George II. Handel and the Prince were not on the best of terms, but this was because George I was a staunch supporter of the composer, and since the Prince loathed everything about his father, the animosity was extended to Handel, even though he liked his music and had nothing against him personally. Handel, who knew the son as well as he did the father, had paid no attention to the Prince’s moodiness, and there was of course his great friend, Caroline, on whom he could always count. The object of George II’s hatred having been eliminated by Providence, the new King lost no time in reinstating Handel in his good graces, immediately commissioning him to compose the anthems for the coronation, a commission duly and magnificently executed. George II proved to be a steady patron, and the Queen, and especially the princesses, went often to the opera.
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