Nor is there any parallel to the Coronation Anthems in European choral literature. It is perfectly true, as Larsen says in his book about Messiah, that “the tendency to exploit sonority, already so clearly seen in the Italian compositions, permeates the whole of these works.” While this tendency excludes any similarity to the Bachian cantata, even the Italian influence, which is undoubtedly strong, must be qualified. No Italian composer would ever interrupt the flow of his music to nail down with hammer strokes “God save the King,” or show such vastness of proportion and propulsive power. Parts of the anthems will reappear in many an oratorio and will seem perfectly natural to their new environment.
We must return once more to the role of English music in Handel’s ceremonial works. Dent denies that either the Chandos Anthems or the Te Deums are indebted to Purcell, Leichtentritt insists they owe not only their outward form but essential musical features to the angelic English composer, and Larsen, while not inclined to accept Dent’s categorical stand, leans toward it, considering Handel’s choral style in his church music more Italian than anything else. We might say that none of them is altogether wrong and every one of them is a little right. The technical means recall the German cantor’s art, and the choral style of Roman and Venetian music is palpably present together with some French elements, but form and tone are unmistakably English. Admittedly, at this stage of his career, Handel’s feeling for the natural cadence and inflections of the English language was slight, he even misinterpreted some of the words he set to music, but he caught the spirit of this English music as no one since Purcell had. Purcell himself was indeed very much responsible for this. We have seen that the Utrecht Te Deum was modelled on Purcell’s “St. Cecilia” Te Deum, and we have noticed that while the more intimate and subtle Purcellian touches eluded Handel for years to come, some are already absorbed and digested in these early English works. The anthem Have mercy on me O God exhibits these very positively, and My heart is inditing demonstrates that Handel had studied Purcell’s settings of the same text. Winton Dean declares Purcell the “precipitating agent” in the formation of Handel’s English style; nothing could more accurately describe the subtle yet pervasive influence of the English master upon the German. The Funeral Anthem shows an even more penetrating influence of English music, and of a much wider range.
Of Purcell’s sixty-odd anthems Handel knew many, but since they were usually found in the company of similar works by Humphrey, Locke, and others, he had a comprehensive view of the latter-day English anthem. Pelham Humphrey, who like Purcell died tragically young, is an important link between the older anthem and that of the Restoration. He had a wonderful sense for vocal setting and an adventurous ear for harmony, as well as for grand sonorous effects. Humphrey was next to Purcell the most talented English composer of the age, and one of those who set the tone for ceremonial music. Matthew Locke (c. 1630-1677), whom we have encountered in his capacity as a composer for the stage, wrote elaborate verse-anthems that were not ignored by Handel, and there are unmistakable signs that Handel was familiar with other fin de siècle composers, as well as with those still active at the time he settled in England. The Ode for St. Ceeilia’s Day (1684) of John Blow (1649-1708), Blow’s royal “Welcome Songs” composed from 1682 onward, and his Coronation Anthems all figure in Handel’s composite style. Blow was a minor master who composed much routine music, but a master he was and English to his fingertips. This placid and hard-working musician could rise to considerable dignity and expressiveness, and his great eight-part Coronation Anthem, God spake sometime in visions, surely left its mark on Handel. Neither can William Croft’s anthems, stately if not very original, be dismissed, as they often are. Dr. Croft (1678-1727) was a fine church composer in the Anglican vein. As we shall see later, Handel did not stop there but went all the way back to the Elizabethans, so that he had a very good idea of English music of over a century.56
Having taken issue with Edward J. Dent, we now must humbly hand him a large bouquet. A cardinal fact that has escaped many scholars was clear to him, and Dent, the redoubtable leader of revived English mu-sicology, stated the fact so succinctly that in one sentence he gave us the key to the idea that determined the tone and quality of the full anthem as Handel received it from his predecessors. Handel’s “dramatic use of the chorus came not from the English church but from the English theatre.” How truel for the anthem was palpably influenced by the masque. Purcell’s anthems have a theatrical quality and the solos in his verse anthems are distinctly operatic. This is not meant to disparage Handel’s procedure. A great, brilliant, and solemn ritual act is theatre, and unless we still retain the Puritans’ mentality we should find nothing objectionable in the terms. Does not a solemn service in a great cathedral have theatrical elements of the noblest sort? The constant search for obscure metaphysical ramifications is misplaced in the face of simple realities and can lead to ridiculous fantasies. In this connection it is amusing to note how far-fetched problem-seeking can mislead the unwary. One author, noticing that all pieces of the “coronation” type are in D major, thought that he was on the trail of a mystic bit of symbolism. “It is obvious,” he says, “that for festive occasions this key was for Handel an inner necessity.” The necessity was there, but it was far from “inner”; it was external and practical: the preferred tuning of the trumpets. Because of the tuning, D major actually became a sort of statutory key for ceremonial occasions. This should also warn our church musicians that performances of these works with organ accompaniment, without the trumpets, drums, and all the panoply of the orchestra, altogether rob them of their spirit.
Handel approached the anthem with a mastery of vocal writing, both solo and choral, that surely was unrivalled at that time. In his use of polyphony he was aware of the collective-universal nature of choral music, of its stability and suggestion of the spatial, of the multidimensional. And he was well aware of the English susceptibility to stirring ceremonial music, which, as we shall see, was carried over from the anthem into the oratorio.
X
1729-1737
Handel and Heidegger take over defunct Academy—Trip to Italy to recruit singers—Finds Italian opera changed—Aged mother’s illness hastens departure—Visit to Halle—Return to London—Second Academy opens, end of 1729—Lotario (1729), Partenope (1730)—Poor season —New singers improve second season—Walsh as Handel’s principal publisher—Poro (1731)—Season closes successfully—Handel’s mother dies—Ezio, Sosarme (1732), Orlando (1733)—Interlude from opera: Deborah (1733)—Renewed operatic rivalry—Opera of the Nobility—Fourth season ends with Handel’s singers deserting—Invitation to Oxford —Tremendous success with English compositions—Athalia (1733), first full-fledged oratorio—Handel ignores success, resumes battle for opera—Formidable competition led by Porpora—The two Ariannas (1734)—Parnasso in Festa—Heidegger dissolves partnership, Handel joins Covent Garden—Ariodante, Alcina (1735)—Lenten season of English works—Opposition grows stronger, Handel’s health begins to fail—Handel turns to English works—Alexander‘s Feast (1736)—Despite success, Handel returns to opera—Atalanta (1736)—Balance turns in his favor, Porpora retreats—Arminio, Giustino, Berenice (1737)—Both opera companies bankrupt—Handel collapses in mind and health—Leaves for Aix
THE GENERAL COURT OF THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF MUSIC MET on January 14, 1729, “for disposing of the Effects” belonging to the institution. The Academy as such was dead, and the directors were busy “prosecuting” the delinquent shareholders, but apparently they were willing to assist Handel and Heidegger if the latter would continue on their own; the decision was reached to lend them the disposable “effects,” scenery, costumes, instruments, and so forth. Handel had been quiet and seemingly inactive since the collapse of the Royal Academy the previous spring (no compositions are known from this period), but the silence, as usual, was deceiving. By the end of autumn his plan was ready: he and Heidegger forming a partnership, the two entrepreneurs undertook to finance a new opera e
stablishment out of their own pockets. It is apparent that while the Royal Academy of Music may have been bankrupt, Handel was not, and his bank account contained enough money to yield the considerable sum needed for such a venture. Heidegger put up an equal amount, and the two partners were in business. The situation did not look too bad; the King continued his subsidy of £1,000, and, according to Mrs. Pendarves, interest in the new opera, as indicated in the rate at which the subscriptions came in, was quite satisfactory.
The first task of the managers was to recruit a new company, all of the stars having left England upon the demise of the Academy. The Daily Post announced on January 27, 1729, that “Mr. Handell, the famous Composer of the Italian Musick,” had departed for Italy “with a Commission from the Royal Academy of Musick”; Heidegger was already there scouting the scene. The most pressing business was to secure a new castrato, and they set their sights on Carlo Broschi, called Farinelli, a singer then rising to eminence. They were unsuccessful. Since Cuzzoni was unwilling to return, and Faustina had married Hasse and was well settled in Venice, altogether new singers had to be found. There is documentary proof of Handel’s presence in Rome and Venice,57 but he undoubtedly visited other operatic centers also. One wonders how the composer felt on returning to the scene of his youthful exploits, to the places where he first received the lasting impression of Italian opera. In the meantime this opera had changed a great deal; the leading Venetian and Neapolitan musicians of twenty years before were fading and an entirely new breed was rising in Naples. We do not know what he might have heard in Italy and how he felt about this new trend, but his subsequent operas testify to his undiminished powers of observation and absorption.
When news reached him from Michaelsen that his mother was gravely ill, Handel hastened his departure from Italy, and after a short passage through Hanover, reached Halle early in June. His mother, aged and blind, was obviously in the shadow of death, and what little time Handel had was spent with her; all invitations to see other people were declined. One of these was from the indisposed Johann Sebastian Bach, who sent his eldest son, Wilhelm Friedemann, in embassy to Halle, to ask his famous colleague to visit him in Leipzig. By July first Handel was back in London, straining to get the opera venture started.
The troupe he finally recruited was a good if not superlative com-pany. Cuzzoni was replaced by another soprano, even homelier and more temperamental, Anna Strada, whom Londoners promptly nicknamed “the Pig.” But she was an even better singer than Cuzzoni, and Handel would tolerate no criticism when an artist in whom he believed was concerned. It was not long before he compelled London not only to appreciate La Strada’s singing but to make her welcome in high social circles. Margherita Merighi, a deep alto, was to take the male roles, and Francesca Bertolli, a mezzo, completed the female cast. The castrato, a soprano, was Antonio Bernacchi, the tenor Annibale Fabri, and Johann Gottfried Riemschneider, an old schoolmate from Halle whom he perhaps picked up in Hamburg, the bass.58 With the exception of Bertolli and Riemschneider, these were experienced and well-trained singers. Bertolli was not unduly endowed with vocal beauty, but her physical pulchritude did not go unnoticed. Poor Riemschneider lasted only one season. Haym having died in August 1729, the post of librettist-secretary of the company was given to Giacomo Rossi. When everything was ready for the launching, Handel sat down and in a couple of weeks wrote an opera, Lotario; the libretto, of uncertain authorship, was an arrangement of an older Venetian book by Salvi. So the second Academy opened with this opera on December 2, 1729.
Lotario was a failure. The plot is confused and complicated, with an unusual number of attempted suicides, and form and meaning are too often diffused in mere movement, a rather stumbling movement at that. But, as usual, there is some fine music hidden in this hastily thrown-together score. It contains one of Handel’s towering and implacable matriarchs, Matilda, who is superbly characterized, and the composer also succeeds here in creating a believable youthful lover, Idelbert. There are some very good arias and fine counterpoint, and the final duet between Adelaide and Lotario is a magnificent paean of love. The opera also has one of those always dramatic prison scenes that immediately induce commentators to invoke Fidelio.
Handel was either blind to the reigning taste or deliberately ignored it. One wonders whether the renewed contact with the universal love of opera in Italy, where all strata of society from coachmen and gondoliers to princes and cardinals enjoyed and understood it, did not fortify him in his belief that he must continue his labors to establish opera in England. But the situation had not changed; the great success of the Beggar’s Opera still reverberated, and even though its sequel, Polly, was kept from the boards by order of the Lord Chamberlain (who remembered the merciless jibes aimed at the Prime Minister in the previous opera), many other imitations were produced in the theatres as well as in any room that could be made to serve the purpose.59 Clearly the English public wanted something else than Italian opera.
To repair the damage, Handel revived a proven success, Giulio Cesare (January 17, 1730), which had a fair run. Then on February 24 the new opera of Partenope, libretto by Stampiglia, was presented to a somewhat surprised audience. This was a bold new departure: an unheroic opera, not a buffa, but a rather sophisticated comedy. There is no matriarch here but a delightfully attractive woman of many qualities. Partenope may be a warrior—she actually leads her army—but she is a woman through and through. This Amazon can exhibit reticent tenderness and can be inspiring, inciting, confusing, and forgiving. “Io ti levo l‘impero dell’armi” is a brilliant bravura piece, but in “Voglio amare” she is a passionate woman. The whole opera breathes love, and the music is remarkably original and fresh; Handel’s new experiences in Italy are reflected in the remarkable, if brief, quartet.
But Partenope was not successful, and the repertory had to be fattened with pasticcios as well as with another revival, Tolomeo. When the season ended the two partners had no reason to congratulate themselves on their enterprise; artistically, financially, and socially the season was a near-failure. With the King away on a protracted holiday in Hanover, the court was absent from the Haymarket Theatre; for some reason Caroline, left behind in London as Regent, also stayed away. Heidegger, a businessman with sound instincts, saw that he must appeal to lower tastes in order to make money; his masquerades of dubious quality were always successful. Above all, he realized that the temper of the public was against a foreign importation presented by foreign artists in a foreign tongue. The Beggar’s Opera had converted not only the populace but the literary men and high society; obviously the musical theatre demanded English subjects performed in the country’s native language. But Handel would not yield. There was danger of a quarrel, and Heidegger seriously considered withdrawing his investment before all of it was in jeopardy.
There were other troubles that required urgent attention—the cast was failing. Though a good singer, Bernacchi, the star castrato, was not popular; he had to run the gauntlet of unfavorable comparisons with Senesino, and Handel was compelled to dismiss him after Partenope. The inferior German basso Riemschneider, who replaced Boschi, quit of his own accord. Only Strada, who despite her ungainly appearance captivated London by her fine singing, held her own; she became the mainstay of the company. There was no time to undertake another personal recruiting trip to Italy; therefore Handel resorted to the unusual—and risky—expedient of engaging singers through the medium of English diplomatic agents. One move was mandatory: Senesino had to be brought back at any cost even though this meant a certain humiliation for Handel; the famous castrato was not amenable to discipline and had openly defied him. The English envoy to Florence succeeded in this difficult diplomatic assignment, and when the second season of the new Academy opened on November 3, 1730, with a revival of Scipio, Senesino (who to Sir Newman Flower’s horror “fed himself with his fingers” ) assumed his old role, while a new basso, Giovanni Commano, replaced Riemschneider. The till began to fill, Heidegger was satisfied for the moment
; the fortunes of the Haymarket Theatre took a turn for the better.
In the meantime Handel came to terms with Walsh, who, beginning with Partenope, became his principal publisher, the business relationship being continued after Walsh’s death by his son. Handel was forced to reach a settlement with the crafty old pirate, for he was being mercilessly plundered; whenever Cluer, Handel’s publisher, put out one of his works, Walsh immediately countered with a similar or even identical publication. The Walshes grew rich on the exploitation of their captive and very productive client.
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