The oratorio starts in medias res, all the principals are immediately involved and are vividly before us. The first scene, entitled “Epinicion, or Song of Triumph for the victory over Goliath and the Philistines,” is one of the great ceremonial pieces, ending with a magnificent Hallelujah Chorus. As a piece of musical architecture, the Epinicion, a string of five numbers forming a self-contained scena, is a departure from older practices, showing that Handel was fully aware of the advantages of the oratorio over the opera seria. This is the victory ode of the ancients informing us of the situation as the drama opens. No time is wasted, the pieces are well-proportioned, the fine opening chorus, “How excellent Thy name, O Lord,” returns and then is replaced and crowned by the great Hallelujah Chorus. In the opening phase of the work the expressive recitatives and the great choral pieces over-shadow the arias, demonstrating both the essential stylistic feature of the new genre, the English oratorio, and Handel’s emancipation from the canon of the seria, but when Saul appears with his great rage songs the personal drama begins at top dramatic pitch.
In the second scene the exchange of views between Merab and Jonathan is perhaps a little lengthy, but the following scene is a wonderful dance piece that begins with the charming chorus of the maidens, “Welcome mighty King,” rising in intensity when the male voices join the chorus. The carillon theme was taken from Francesco Antonio Urio, but Urio would scarcely believe what possibilities his theme (in itself altered) discloses in Handel’s elaboration. The core of the drama is reached when the king’s envy is aroused by “this upstart boy,” David, and he begins to rage. David’s soothing song only draws a javelin that misses its mark. In the meantime everyone sings music perfectly in accordance with his character, Jonathan’s difficult position being presented by a fine recitative, “O filial piety,” followed by an aria that is less impressive. The exchange of friendly endearment between David and Jonathan is somewhat routine Handel, but the minute the overwhelming figure of Saul reappears the dramatic tension is back in full force, and the music of the secondary figures is informed by the same quality. The act ends with a fine fugue, a choral prayer for David: “Preserve him for the glory of Thy name.” The people enter the drama by expressing their uneasiness.
The second act opens with a scene built on the same admirable dramatic principle as the first-act opening. The chorus begins with “Envy, eldest born of hell,” as mighty a piece as Handel ever composed. It evolves over an ostinato bass which in the middle of its relentless repetitions is interrupted by the dark warning, “Hide thee in the black night.” This chorus no longer comments, it takes a hand in the unfolding drama. We are again witnessing the birth of tragedy from the spirit of lyricism, for this is Atridean lyricism, the profound and fearful dilemma of human nature, full of contradiction and subject to the irrational strokes of fate. Now Handel calms Saul’s rage, and when the father answers Jonathan, who beseeches him “Sin not, O King, against the youth,” he is composed and kingly. The recitative before Jonathan’s fine aria is somewhat perfunctory, but then so are the words: “he has done important service to you and to the nation.” Such flat words never roused Handel’s poetic imagination. The love music of Michal and David is a nice interlude in which Handel’s recently renewed experiences with pastoral music are shown to advantage. The people fully approve “virtue’s charms,” in an affecting choral piece.
The sinfonia heard at this point is a purely theatrical device, equivalent to the lowering of the curtain in staged performances, to link events that take place after the lapse of a certain time. Like the fine overture, the sinfonia is an elaborate organ concerto.
David’s return from another victorious campaign, only increasing the king’s jealousy, is followed by a duet between David and Michal, not amorous this time but fraught with fear and foreboding, even though David protests that “At persecution I can laugh.” Now Handel carefully and sympathetically develops the tender girl’s character, and she finds an unexpected reservoir of strength to defend her husband. “No, let the guilty tremble,” she sings with almost heroic accents. After another sinfonia, the king, brooding in a recitative heavy with tension, attempts to kill Jonathan, whereupon the chorus sings “O fatal consequence of rage,” a stunning piece expressing indignation over this “violation of every law” and horror at “this furious monster.” These are the king’s outraged subjects, not disinterested bystanders. The theme of this great choral piece also hails from Urio’s Te Deum but is developed beyond anything Urio could have foreseen.
The whole third act is tightly composed, tense and pressing toward a climax. The tremendous opening recitative shows Saul’s inner collapse—“Wretch that I am,” he sings, “Of my own ruin author.” Perhaps the only comparable scene in all operatic literature is Philip’s soliloquy in Verdi’s Don Carlo. Handel, the great connoisseur of men, stands in awe before Saul. In the traditional biblical figure he discovers a tragic human being. The scene at Endor is Aeschylean: fate does not stalk in, it envelops everything as the orchestra prepares the appearance of the Ghost. The unconquerable impulse of a man proceeding to his ruin is depicted, the Ate of Greek tragedy, which strikes the sinner and sweeps him away with his sins. But Saul’s sin is of an altogether human quality, not a direct defiance of God but pride in his power and bitter jealousy of its challengers. The scene is superbly calculated to prepare the final tragedy: Handel avoids everything formal and symmetrical, the king stands alone, undeluded and fully aware of the portent of his evil deeds, yet not contrite. He is not going to be subdued, for “If Heaven denies aid, seek it from hell!” The ensuing confrontation with the Ghost, musical theatre of the first water, has worried sentimental critics and historians, not least among them Chrysander, who once more forgot the duties of editor and scholar, lapsing into those of the moralist.
A sinfonia prepares the change of scene. David is encamped waiting for the news of the battle between the Israelites and the Philistines. An Amalekite messenger comes carrying Saul’s crown, with the tidings of Saul’s death by his hand; his reward is to be put to death. David’s aria “Impious wretch” is a remarkable piece, for as is sometimes Handel’s way, his music changes and even negates the meaning of the words. After the first part, angry in tone, when David repeats “Since thy own mouth hath testified, by thee the Lord’s anointed died,” it no longer sounds like a justification of the death sentence, but like a realization of the futility of the act.
The final scene, like the very first in the oratorio, is put together from several numbers, really a compound finale which the authors called “Elegy on the death of Saul and Jonathan.” At first Handel wanted to use his labor-saving device of borrowing wholesale, this time from the Funeral Anthem, but his heart was in this somber tragedy; changing his mind he wrote superlative original music. After the Dead March the chorus sings “Mourn, Israel, mourn thy beauty lost,” a heartrending dirge. From the final notes of the magnificent instrumental introduction Handel creates the mood of the choral lament “Thy choicest youth on Gilboa slain,” the almost unbearable pathos of youth destroyed. David’s aria, “Brave Jonathan his bow ne’er drew,” is not on a par with the following “In sweetest harmony,” but when he sings with the chorus in the manner of a precentor “O fatal day,” we once more hear mourning music of breathtaking beauty. The Greek tragedy could end here, on the profoundly pathetic observation “how low the mighty lie!” But—perhaps a remnant of the operatic dénouement—now the living must receive their due. The people are summoned by Abiather: “Ye sons of Judah, weep no more,” and the people respond with “Gird on thy sword,” urging the new king to “Pursue thy wonted fame.” Abiather is a sort of perfunctory public crier, but the chorus soon makes us forget him, for in this rousing piece one can physically sense the tumultuous, surging crowd. The theme of the fugue, “Retrieve the Hebrew name,” which constitutes the middle part of this great chorus, also comes (again altered) from Urio’s Te Deum (In Te Domini speravi).
Both Jennens and Handel realized the gr
eatness of the theme of the wild darkness of the driven mind, and they concentrated on Saul’s towering figure. Though intermittently deranged by jealousy, the king is a tragic figure, for while he has moral flaws of character, he is not without heroism when he faces his fate. In his clear moments, Saul analyzes himself with a sensuous misery, a witness to his own sorrow. He is interested in nothing but his own dark consciousness and the sensations exploding within it. But if the fire of Saul’s passion is gross and ugly, Handel shows that even the gross and ugly can be wholly burned away in the full and courageous acceptance of the consequences.
Jonathan and David are clearly secondary figures. It seems that Jennens was not altogether in sympathy with David and that Handel accepted and shared this view, because while David’s traditional role as singer to the harp is well served by the music he is given, his character is less heroically drawn than is usual in works, poetic, pictorial, or musical, where he is the principal figure. Jonathan is touching, but he weakens and gradually fades out. Michal is lovingly sketched, a young woman deep, warm, and sweet, while Merab, though priggish, is really a passionate woman. While the script shows her in this mood she comes to life in her music, but when she drops her haughty opposition to David, Handel drops her; he is no longer interested in her, as the music plainly shows. The Witch and Samuel’s Ghost are powerful dramatic characters, but Saul’s real foil is the chorus—his people. The role of the chorus is altogether on the pattern of the classical tragedy, for the king’s actions involve his people and a tragic conflict is inevitable.
Anything like a conventional “sacred oratorio” performance of Saul would certainly call up the wrong associations—Jehovah is in the picture as a mere accessory. Supernatural forces agitate human destinies, but these fates are nevertheless decided in the terrible struggle of human souls. Nor is any moralizing in order, as Handel himself made clear by eventually cutting out the role of the High Priest, the only figure through whom Jennens indulged in a bit of moralizing. This is stark drama in which Handel realized to the highest degree what was always his aim: to extract from his hero the finest and the greatest that is in him in the moment of his supreme trial. And this drama demands the resources of an opera house, resources that would delight those Handelians who like their Baroque music massive, with phalanxes of singers and players. Saul calls for the largest ensemble in all of Handel’s works, and Handel himself made it massive. It is the only one of his oratorios that employs trombones in addition to a full Baroque orchestra, solo organ, and carillon; also, he borrowed from the Tower a pair of outsize military kettledrums which sounded an octave lower than the usual orchestral instruments.
The use of the organ in Saul, as in some of the other oratorios, calls for special study on the part of modern organists, for Handel uses it in many instances as an orchestral instrument and not simply to fill in the continuo. Indiscriminate use destroys a considerable amount of the orchestral color envisaged. Organists should be particularly alert to Handel’s instructions when he explicitly excludes the organ, or when he demands tasto solo or organo pieno. On the other hand, the splendid overture, more extensive than any of Handel’s opera sinfonias, is really a four-“movement” suite ossia organ concerto intended for his own use, as are a number of the other instrumental pieces where the organist can excel, especially if he knows how to improvise tastefully.
Saul is not without its weak spots. Fortunately they are few and can easily be eliminated, for it cannot often enough be repeated that such inordinately long Baroque works must be pruned. In general one might say that there are too many arias in Saul and even when they provide great music, they tend to retard the pace of the drama. A number of them should be cut—always with an eye on tonal concordances—and the result would be a tight and relentlessly developing drama.76
A refreshing change from the operas is the remarkable fact that all male parts in Saul were designed for natural male voices and were so sung at the first performance. Saul was sung by the bass Waltz, Jonathan by the tenor Beard, David by the countertenor Russell, the Ghost of Samuel by the bass Hussey. La Francesina took the part of Michal, Mrs. Arne that of Merab. This cast was not comparable to the great Italian ensembles to which Handel was accustomed, but it was a competent crew. The less than modest acclaim Saul received was not due to their modest talent; the London public could not as yet grasp the significance of this work. Two years later in Dublin Saul proved to be a great success.
On February 17, 1739, Alexander’s Feast was revived, followed on March 3 by Il Trionfo del Tempo e della Verità, the cantata Handel wrote in Italy. This is not among the best of his Italian compositions; the didactic tone of its text is one that never fired Handel’s imagination. Although somewhat expanded for this revival, it was laid aside after one performance, to be once more taken up and reworked at the end of his career. March 20 at the Haymarket was an unusual evening, a benefit for charity, for which purpose Handel had “generously given the Use of the Opera-House, and directed the performance of Alexander’s Feast,” also playing a new concerto. Thus we see Handel in the midst of the consider-able difficulties of maintaining a sagging theatrical enterprise, working day and night on new compositions, yet characteristically taking out time to help a charitable purpose. On this occasion, a number of well-to-do musicians, led by Michael Festing, Maurice Greene, Pepusch, and others, organized a Fund (later Society) for the Support of Decayed Musicians. Handel was among those asked to join the charitable society, the first of its kind in the world. Everyone was enthusiastic, even Heidegger joined, donating £20 to defray the expenses of the performance, and the benefit brought in handsome returns. Handel remained a benefactor of the Society for the rest of his life.
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Israel in Egypt, which saw the light in the King’s Theatre on April 4, with “several concertos on the organ,” is almost as remarkable for its defects as it is for its excellences. The construction is loose; it can hardly be maintained that the parts are carefully related to the whole, since the work was not composed on a dramatic poem. It has been suggested that Jennens may have helped with the selection of the verses from the Bible, which is possible, but we know that Handel was thoroughly familiar with the Bible, and that on a previous occasion he had refused such assistance proffered by a bishop. We must also suppose that Jennens would have disapproved of such an undramatic juxtaposition of excerpts from Exodus and the Psalms; he admired Handel but he admired even more his own talents as a dramatic poet. The manner of composition was also peculiar in that Handel first set the second part (Israel in Egypt is the only oratorio in two “acts”).
The work is completely different from Saul; in fact it differs from the dramatic oratorio pattern to such an extent that Streatfeild’s suggestion that it was originally intended as a large anthem should be given consideration. Perhaps Israel in Egypt was indeed planned as an anthem or a set of anthems like the Coronation Anthems, but somehow it got out of hand and assumed the proportions of a large oratorio. The original title was The Song of Moses, and the present first act was to be preceded by the Funeral Anthem, which Handel was apparently determined to use in one way or another. One can hardly blame him for not wanting such a superb work buried with the late queen forever. But the plan had once more to be abandoned, though not the idea of taking a short cut: Israel is the most heavily padded of all Handel’s great works. Almost half of the oratorio’s numbers depend on borrowings, in part or even in whole. The anthem character is also plain from the exterior of the oratorio: there are only four arias as against almost ten times as many choruses, and practically no recitatives. There must have been some purpose in this “ceremonial” construction, but it is impossible to ascertain its nature; the war with Spain was in the air but not yet a reality.77 Nor can we find a trace of any commission. Though long, Israel in Egypt remains a torso; the first part was never written, and the work opens abruptly with a perfunctory recitative. Yet with all its shortcomings, there is an impressiveness about Israel in Egypt that deeply satis
fies.
After a brief recitative, the oratorio opens with a large, anthem-like double chorus, “And the children of Israel sigh’d,” and thereafter one superb choral piece follows another. “He spake the word” owes its core to a sinfonia from the now-famous Serenata of Stradella, and “He gave them hailstones for rain” also descended from that fine Neapolitan composer, though in both instances the borrowing resulted in something so Handelian that only scholars armed with documents can point out the foreign goods. The alto aria, “Their land brought forth frogs,” is descriptive but in a story-telling sense, as indeed the whole oratorio is a vast, loosely connected epic poem. The various plagues are described in this manner; hailstones can be heard dropping on the orchestra; flies and lice (the latter ennobled in Germany to the status of gnats) buzz and flutter. Stradella would have been amazed at this extraordinary entomological accompaniment. No plagiarism was ever more imaginatively treated. It was to amaze Haydn, too, but that genial elderly retired Kapellmeister picked up the idea like a youthful experimenter—he understood Handel.
“He sent a thick darkness,” in its free declamation, construction, and ambiguous harmonic scheme, is startlingly different from the severely contrapuntal lines of most of the other choruses. This choral recitation is a magnificent musical description of the uncertainties of the night which, indeed, “might be felt” physically. We seldom know in what key we are until the piece ends on a solid E major, but near the middle we surely hear E-flat minor! “He smote all the first born” was derived (as was “They loathed to drink of the river”) from a set of Handel’s own keyboard fugues, once more transformed with unparalleled skill, and of course with newly devised orchestral accompaniment. “But as for his people,” letters patent owned by Stradella, affords, with its pastoral tone, a little respite among the great anthems. The following fugue largely continues this tone. This time Handel borrowed Stradella’s beautiful tune “Io pur seguiro” in its entirety, without changes beyond removing one dot to accommodate the rhythm of the English text. “Egypt was glad” is an undisguised adaptation, almost without change, of an organ canzona from Johann Caspar Kerll’s Modulatio Organica.78
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