It is most interesting and instructive to consider the case of Schütz. He developed in his Geistliche Konzerte a German musical diction, a German melodic speech previously unknown. The German prose of Luther’s Bible translation was as decisive in the formation of a German Protestant style as was the King James Version in the English. But to a dramatically inclined composer—and Schütz was a dramatist of the first water—the rich, descriptive, narrative language is an incentive to “free” composition; Schütz used the chorale very sparingly. A hundred years later we see the same reluctance in another dramatist, Handel, though his exact contemporary Bach was devoted to the hymns. When Handel does use the chorale (there are fewer than a handful of such occasions), one gets the impression that he is remembering his youth, his sturdy Lutheran upbringing. What he elaborates is a musical quotation without dogmatic or particularly churchly significance.
The two opposing elements of the age, polyphony on one side, aria and recitative on the other, were destined for a showdown, and under the impact of social developments the latter eventually became victorious. The settlement between the churchly and secular spirit in music also ended with the victory of the secular, and music enters into the service of free European art, definitely and irrevocably, even in the field of church music. The Italian cantata was the chief agent in this change; its gold-dust texts and sweet music had completely left the domain of the “sacred.” Yet once more, the noble traditions were not lost. Such composers as Antonio Lotti still wrote genuine church music, and to object to their passionate dramatic accents is to deny to great artists the right to be living human beings saturated with the spirit of their times. The German cantors were not eager to accept the Italian cantata style, preferring the carefully worked out motet style. Their addiction to abstract ideals, their symbolism and Protestant mysticism searched for the inner life, the attraction of a beautifully shaped external form being secondary. At the same time, the German cantata and oratorio could not have developed into the type cultivated by Buxtehude, Zachow, and Bach without incorporating such basically secular elements as recitative, arioso, and aria, all of which came from opera. It was in the choruses that the old polyphonic art was preserved.
[3]
IN ENGLAND, as religion moved from the center to the peripheries, the transition from the old to the new faith was strongly affected by political-cultural considerations; indeed, English nationalism made the Church of England as Roman Catholicism made the Irish nation. This linking of the spiritual with the political institutions of England gradually became stronger during the centuries following the Reformation. The national state with the monarch at its head as symbol became the visible Church, and in Handel’s time that Church was an almost secular institution, its dignitaries only too often spiritual opportunists who acknowledged their God but exploited this acknowledgment. The critics of the era were outspoken in their condemnation of the Lords Spiritual. Horace Walpole, commending Archbishop Cornwallis as “a good sort of man,” says “he was free from hypocrisy” and “without the abject soul of most of his brethren.” When the Primacy was offered to Joseph Butler in 1747, he declined it, so it is said, on the ground that it was too late for him “to try to support a failing Church.” We read that in the last decade of Handel’s life Archbishop Herring conducted a thriving business by selling the bones of his Canterbury saints. Apparently this traffic in bones and other relics, a custom in southern Catholicism and violently opposed by the Reformation, was sometimes found useful in the Protestant stronghold of England.
It must be acknowledged, of course, that there is a religious overtone in all political loyalties; the State has always made an explicit claim to at least semidivine authority, a claim that in modern no less than ancient times has sometimes emerged in a quasi deification of the political head of the state. The Christian priest who functions in the king’s chapel has in practice been too often indistinguishable from the courtier who functions in the king’s court. The English did indeed read into the words of Holy Writ a conception of the “nation” that is entirely modern. The cause for the distortion is plain: religion is politics. After all, kings acquired the habit of relying on lawyers instead of ecclesiastics long before the Reformation, and were opposed to the theory of a papally controlled internationalism even in overwhelmingly Catholic countries. History is full of edifying episodes in which religious decorum was observed while rapacious kings fought poltroon popes.
There can be no question that the Church of England in Handel’s time was bereft of the spirit of any holy tradition. It had abandoned the mysteries of religion, and its real raison d’être was a form of materialism couched in biblical words. All that was left was Holy Scripture, and it must be admitted that some of the Bible’s teachings can be as contorted as a chapter in Das Kapital. The fact is that the Church was an arm of Government, of the social system, and everything else was of secondary importance.
There is another reality in English history we must recognize in order to understand the spirit of English Protestantism: a historical consciousness that represents a particular form of living, influenced by tradition and continuity. English thought is dependent on this tradition. For the rationalistic English Protestant theology the Bible furnished dramatic raw material that eminently suited English tastes and desires. The victorious battles and advantageous peace treaties, the king’s triumphs and anniversaries were celebrated not with the cantatas and motets of the Lutherans, but with great and festive musical murals that actually had an almost scenic grandeur. English composers (and of course this goes back to before Handel’s time, for Purcell was the incarnation of this style) did not suffer and lament with resignation the errors of human insensibility. They were entirely taken with the great dramatic pictures of the Bible, and the Bible to them usually meant the Old Testament; the vast majority of Purcell’s and all of Handel’s anthems were composed on Old Testament texts. Purcell dealt with the biblical texts on purely artistic-ceremonial grounds; their religious meaning was altogether secondary, and in most instances there is not a shred of Christian spirit or attitude. What appears as spiritual content in these magnificent works is not the manifestation of a religious mood but the infinitely subtle and artistic expression of a creative soul inspired by the grandeur and poetry of religious themes. Nor must we overlook the English love for historical precedent, for ancient techniques and manners.
The state Church presented, then, a cultural-political religion whose connections with Christian spirituality became tenuous until the great revival of spirituality in English Protestantism beginning with John Wesley and culminating in the mid-19th century. When every allowance for exaggeration has been made, the fact is inescapable that Wesley found the vast masses of the people mainly without any religious guidance and eager to hear him. Had the Church of England even remotely approximated what it should have been, the Methodist movement would not have taken place. The alliance of English Protestantism with rising capitalism, with commerce, industry, and finance, and with the modern political organization of the state that governed all this, was a move with far-reaching consequences. Only in more recent times, after the emergence of the Kingdom of Prussia as a modern power, do we find a similar phenomenon in the Lutheran state Church. Gott mit uns parallels the English belief that Providence has arranged matters so that the Established Church and the state should be victorious and immune from harm as long as they were synonymous with the nation. This English ideal, while observing the formalities of Protestant thought, asserted the principle of man’s individual personality and rights, a principle that in fact represented values and aims unknown to Lutheran doctrine. It is a reaffirmation of the belief that man is sufficient, that his mission can be carried out by immanent human forces, and that divine powers are needed only to ratify the human act. Thus the state and the Church were mutually dependent, for they were in reality two different exponents of the same principles. Their collaboration produced that uniquely English situation in which the spirit of the moder
n politico-legal, humanistic state determined the form of its religious tenets. It was a religion of blood, soil, and nation, Christianity accommodated to the prevailing mode, making a compromise with humanism.
But despite the “system,” the worldliness, acumen, and opportunism of the bishops, and a society riddled with avarice and sensuality, the English people were not merely nominal Christians. They believed in God and the Thirty-nine Articles and subscribed to severe moral standards. They were not, however, disposed to delay the coming of Heaven to Earth.
Now we must turn to the peculiar but in many ways cardinal factor in the development of English national life, Nonconformism. What distinguished the Nonconformist was his insistence on his right to “religious freedom.” He sought to create a state in the image of his religious tenets, but it must at once be recalled that when he had power under Cromwell, liberty did not extend even to the Anglican episcopacy, let alone the Roman.
Puritan morals appear to hold enjoyment bad, or at least suspect, but the Puritan does not consider suffering good; therefore to escape suffering and sorrow he removes everything that may cause it. The Puritan ethic is the negation of life, therefore the whole Puritan morality is the soul’s compulsion to oppose life, which serves to make life, seen as sin, even more exciting, the way modesty makes nakedness more exciting. One must come to the conclusion that virtue is surely here to give sin its value, but of course the choice between the two is not quite similar to a choice between two systems of geometry.
Yet the influence of Nonconformism upon social and economic life was great and in many ways salutary. While mitigating the severity of the system of laissez faire then dominant in politics and society, it also emphasized the doctrine of personal responsibility, a doctrine that found expression in the inculcation of diligence and thrift, thereby opening the way to prosperity for many Nonconformist laymen. On the other hand, the puritanical mentality created standards of ruthless materialism, the setting up of self-assertion rather than self-fulfillment as the purpose of life, and the relegation of idealism, of spiritual aspirations, to a point of unreality, thus making a full human existence impossible and preventing creative development.
And what a curious world was the Puritans’ ideal when they had the power to enforce it: the theatres closed, literature and music frowned upon, professional actors persecuted. But Puritans of all hues and in all ages often have double standards, something that did not escape Handel’s sharp eyes when he wrote operas on biblical texts and called them “sacred oratorios.” The Puritans and Nonconformists, whose influence remained an important factor in the thinking of the lower and middle classes, were also convinced that theirs was the only way to salvation. But in the 18th century we witness a curious meeting of the minds that is uniquely English. While loudly denouncing the popish vanity of the Established Church, the Nonconformists in fact had dual church citizenship: in matters of faith they were indeed nonconforming, but for national-patriotic affairs they gladly joined all other Britons in St. Paul’s Cathedral to hear an anthem or Te Deum by “Mr. Handell.” These solemn services were the visible manifestations of sentiments that transcend all party strife and all discussions in a single devotion to the national interest. Hawkins is our witness that this was well understood. “Many of the anthems were made on the most joyful occasions, that is to say, thanksgivings for victories obtained over our enemies during a war in which the interests of all Europe were concerned: upon the celebration of which solemnities it was usual for Queen Anne to go in state to St. Paul’s Cathedral.”
[4]
THE NEW capitalistic civilization of post-Restoration Britain did not discard religion; it recognized its pragmatic usefulness, even necessity. But this God whose sanction is sought for the achievement of an industrial or merchant civilization, the God whom Handel memorialized in his music for his new compatriots, could not be the same God Bach worshipped; therefore the music Handel composed for the official English divine service must also be quite different from the Lutheran. Indeed, these are not songs wrung from man’s soul as he contemplates God. Once more Addison is a reliable witness whom we can quote. His definition of the nature of English church music of the Age of Reason is most characteristic:
Church music based on Holy Writ has its foundation in Reason, and would impose our Virtue in proportion as it raised our Delight ... the Fear, the Love, the Sorrow, the Indignation that are awakened in the Mind by Hymns and Anthems, make the Heart better, and proceed from such Causes as are altogether reasonable and praiseworthy. Pleasure and Duty go hand in hand, and the greater our Satisfaction is, the greater is our Religion. (Spectator, June 14, 1712.)
Handel’s church music comprises a small part of his total output. Aside from the Latin pieces composed in Italy (see p. 74) it consists of the twelve Chandos Anthems, four Coronation Anthems, one Funeral and two Wedding Anthems, the Foundling Hospital Anthem, and five Te Deums. That is, aside from the Te Deums they are all anthems, but actually there is no basic difference between anthem and Te Deum. Posterity’s evaluation of them shows an astonishing range of diversity, owing to vague conceptions of the nature and purpose of church music in general and English church music in particular, from the ever-present-and inadmissible—comparisons with Bach to the mistaken notion, at the other end of the spectrum, that the Enlightenment is synonymous with atheism. The simple truth is that Handel recognized both the monarchy and the Church as necessary and useful institutions and was always ready to praise them in music appropriate to the occasion. The bold and spacious metaphors of the choral language of this church music are so persuasive that subsequent composers who tried their hand at choral writing could hardly liberate themselves from its overwhelming influence. Yet they habitually ignore the many intimate features this music contains, for they did not perceive the difference between some of the chamber-music-like Chandos Anthems and the robust and proclamatory Coronation Anthems and Te Deums. Composers and choral societies have been taught for generations that the Handelian chorus always sings in gun emplacements. Even Elgar turned the intimate anthem In the Lord put I my trust into a bloated choral symphony.
Kretzschmar was of the opinion that Handel developed a basic form established by Schütz without materially changing it—a view that is untenable even though Schütz is in a way an interesting counterpart to Handel since he, too, absorbed and acclimatized an alien musical idiom. But while emulating the Italian style, Schütz remained altogether faithful to his German Lutheran heritage. No one would consider him anything but a German, whereas Handel became a British institution. As Basil Lam (in Handel, a Symposium) correctly points out, the church works are “impeccably Anglican in tone.” Yet confusion is compounded when Lam ventures that “had Handel remained in Germany he would doubtless have produced many cantatas in the style he must have learned from Zachow,” while Dent categorically states in his little Handel biography that the Chandos Anthems are “works of a character new both to England and to Handel.” As we have seen in Chapter I, Handel did not compose for his own church beyond a few youthful student works, nor did the devoted and enthusiastic organist compose a single “liturgical” organ piece, such as a chorale prelude. The decision not to seek the cantor’s career was early and irrevocable. Nor can one agree with Dent’s statement that the Chandos Anthems are “the only representatives of the Protestant cantata in Handel’s output.” Perhaps in function they fulfilled the role of the cantata, as in general did the anthem, but surely neither in tone, substance, nor thought do they resemble the German Protestant cantata.
Lam shows true insight into another group of this church music when he states that “the Coronation music belongs to a class of compositions not designed to promote meditation or reflection, activities usually inappropriate at such functions.” He is, of course, altogether right, because these anthems have nothing to do with the religion that Whitehead epitomized with his epigram: “Religion is what a man does with his solitariness.” As usual, the Germans have a proper word for the servic
es for which these anthems were composed: Staatsakten, which is exactly what they were, solemn state occasions. The Church was an essential part of the state constitution, and its services, especially on solemn occasions, always had an element of political demonstration. It is for this reason that Handel’s “church music” is not suitable for ordinary services. Except for some of the Chandos Anthems, these works call for a large apparatus, choral, orchestral, and ceremonial, such as even the great cathedrals can muster only for exceptional occasions. Finally, the fact must be considered that there are some able critics who consider the Chandos Anthems “good” but not “great” Handel. This judgment can only be the result of unfamiliarity with the nature of the species. What these critics see is that Handel’s voluminous sentences and choral proclamations are measured with a ruler to fit the stated purpose of the occasion; what they do not see is that they also billow like sails. The anthems become more closely patterned the more expansive they become. Besides, these anthems contain some of Handel’s finest choruses, among them magnificent fugues.
Perhaps we should take as a starting point for discussion the “propriety” of the music and the presence or absence of the “promotion of meditation or reflection.” As was remarked above, the anthems represent in a nutshell much of Handel’s formal and expressive range, from intimate pastoral scenes to jubilant Hallelujah choruses. This diversity would indicate an equally wide range of textual sources, but in fact the anthems are almost exclusively Psalm settings, a circumstance of considerable significance in view of English attitudes towards church music in general and Handel’s personal preferences in particular. The Psalms have always played a very important part in the liturgy of the Christian Church, but with the exception of churches that follow a high and elaborate liturgy, this position has long since been lost in most Protestant denominations. Handel, a great connoisseur of the Bible, was attracted to the Psalms because they were not dogmatic statements but affirmations of religion expressed with the poet’s vividness and perception and an intensity of conviction that gives them eternal value. Handel was always attracted to good poetry, especially the kind rich in pictorial imagery. In their turn the English people, who achieved a domestication of the Old Testament unknown to other Christian nations and whose admiration for it should not be confused with the attitude of the more extreme forms of Protestantism, also loved this fine poetry, and they appreciated that the references in the Psalms are for the most part to real personalities, to the present world rather than to a future salvation.
George Frideric Handel_Dover Books on Music Page 29
