It was a mistake, similar to that in Alexander’s Feast, to follow this ending with anything, least of all with poetry of Jennens’s own making. The music composed for Il Moderato is still of very high quality, but the moods have wilted; it is difficult to follow apotheosis with homily. Handel ends Il Moderato with a grand choral piece, but he now feels that a lesson is called for, and resorts to a chorale cantus firmus to bring it home. Erhalt uns Herr bei deinem Wort is a great tune, and it is elaborated with great skill, but it is neither Miltonian nor English; both the spirit and the remarkable workmanship of this piece are out of character in this Purcellian work.
With L’Allegro Handel entered into a more intimate relationship with Purcell, but it was not only Purcell who bound him to the English scene; the music of his young colleague, Arne, attracted him—and was to attract him on future occasions. Arne’s is not strong music; it is tender and guileless, there are few dramatic accents and even fewer tensions, but there is a felicity and domestic security present that is as attractive as it is thoroughly middle-class English. Arne is altogether un-Handelian, completely lacking in heroic grandeur, but it was exactly this quality that attracted Handel. While the impact of this fine composer on Handel was not comparable to that of Purcell, it was nevertheless perceptible and real.
L‘Allegro is again one of those works that suffered constant alteration and perhaps the largest number of transpositions, ranging all the way from soprano to bass. Yet, though he changed and transposed, Handel never really hurt this score, and some of his later additions (which were considered in our discussion) became valuable permanent parts of the work. L’Allegro needs supporters—there is a noticeable coolness towards it in the Handelian literature. Even Julian Herbage considers it “a somewhat unsatisfactory entertainment,” while other critics deplore the lack of dramatic interest and characterization, a criticism that would equally apply to Messiah. It seems to us, though, that this adverse judgment is due mainly to the mistake of considering L’Allegro an oratorio, which it is not. It is not even a “Klein-Oratorium,” nor is it either a dramatic or a “sacred” piece, but an extended English ode-pastoral.
The lack of form and organization that some writers see in it is contradicted by the features of construction related above, but we suspect there are other factors at work here that cause misunderstanding. L‘Allegro has a large number of accompanied recitatives, every one of them carefully composed and most of them superbly expressive. The recitative is usually a stumbling block for persons not close to opera. In a “sacred” work, such as a Bach Passion, they accept it without question because the text sanctifies everything, but in operas they would just as soon omit them, and indeed many recordings of operas do so. Recitatives usually begin with traditional formulas and the superficial observer does not notice when a piece assumes a physiognomy of its own. The recitatives in L’Allegro often approach the arioso, and their melodic line is vaulted. Another puzzling phenomenon is the presence of not a few unaccompanied or sparsely accompanied solo passages (often without bass or continuo) which seem “incomplete” to those accustomed to full and continuous harmony. Those, however, who can concentrate on the expressive qualities of the human voice will not find anything strange in such passages. No, L’Allegro ed il Penseroso is a masterpiece; the first part is surely Handel at his imaginative best, while Part Two, perhaps less consistently fresh in invention, is very close to it. In many ways this is the most adventurous and exploratory of Handel’s works, looking far into the future. L’Allegro, to use Milton’s words, “is most musical,” and if its popularity is limited, that is because it “shuns the noise of folly.”
The performance on February 27, 1740, for which the management still had to assure the public that the theatre was “secur’d against the Cold,” presented sopranos Signora Francesina and “the Boy,” the latter probably a son of the organist John Robinson and Ann Turner Robinson, who for some time was one of Handel’s sopranos. The alto part was taken by the countertenor Russell, the tenor was Beard, and the bass Reinhold. It seems that L’Allegro, while not exactly a success, pleased more than the two large oratorios that preceded it, yet Handel found it necessary to revise the score repeatedly, mainly because of the different requirements of the ever-changing casts.
In March Handel revived Saul and Esther, and in April Israel in Egypt had one performance. Something, however, was amiss, because in September Handel suddenly resumed work on Imeneo, two years after it had been abandoned in favor of Saul. Immediately after this score was finished early in October, he embarked on still another opera, Deidamia. Thus his second—and as it turned out, last—season at Lincoln’s Inn Fields was to be once more an opera venture. By acquiring Andreoni, a soprano castrato, and using his English singers and La Francesina, Handel scraped together an opera company. For the opening early in November, Parnasso in Festa was revived; then on St. Cecilia’s Day Imeneo was presented and was a total failure that survived for only one repetition. The year 1741 opened bleak and cheerless. The cold wave no longer deterred the patrons of the opera house, yet they still failed to come in numbers. Deidamia opened on January 10, but by the 10th of February it too reached its end—there were only three performances. Walsh, always carefully timing his publishing affairs, was on hand with his invitation to subscription, but the response was so meagre that it had to be abandoned.
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HANDEL’S LAST TWO operas are less known than Agrippina. That first of his full-fledged Italian operas, written thirty years earlier, is at least always mentioned with pride by all writers as having conquered the Venetians; the last two are merely recorded as utter failures. This is only one of the examples of the astonishing insufficiency of our knowledge of Handel and his works, because both of these operas are crammed full of delectable music. Imeneo may very well defy resuscitation because of its inane libretto, but Deidamia is a genuine masterpiece that will certainly come into its own when such works are prepared and performed by persons whose horizon is not limited to the operatic routine of the late 19th century. In both of these operas the music is worked with the finest brush, the melodies, many of them in dance forms and rhythms, are light, capricious, often bordering on the style galant. The short two- or four-measure tunes of the opera buffa make their entry into Handel’s vocabulary; these tunes are “popular” in the best sense of the word. Once the tune is launched, there is, however, no telling what metric tricks Handel will play on its symmetry. Between these fresh tunes there appears the great pathos of the seria with its long-breathed, arching melodies, the grave accompanied recitatives and virtuoso coloraturas, but in most instances this tone is used for subtle contrast that serves comical ends. The texture of the score is transparent, the orchestral writing is of chamber-music delicacy, with particular attention paid to the bass line. Handel avoids the typical rumbling-ambling bass line of the Baroque; everything is light and airy, the composer repeatedly specifies cellos without basses, and at times there is no bass at all; more precisely, the violins are in charge of it. Both operas continue on the tack Handel took with Serse, but they depend even less on the da capo aria than does that fine score. That these last operas were not just dashed off and that Handel fussed a good deal over them is indicated by the alternate versions of arias; and the deliberate attempt at “modernization” is further attested by the ensembles and the use of the chorus.
Imeneo vacillates between opera buffa and comic pastoral; it is quite different from Porpora’s setting of the same libretto for Venice in 1726. To be sure, what Handel composed was not the same book; Stampiglia’s original text was put through the usual intellectual shredding process by an anonymous librettist until it became unrecognizable. Though a resounding failure as a theatrical piece, Imeneo contains delightful music; the harmonic scheme is bold, the tunes charming, and the writing always fastidiously elegant. There is a fine trio and an extended and well-constructed finale with chorus. The arias show the virtuoso but light style of the newer Neapolitan opera, something its conte
mporaries must have noticed because they called Imeneo an “operetta.” Unfortunately, dramatic continuity and the theatre are so badly served by the lengthy simile arias (“I am like a vessel driven by storms”), and other irrelevant insertions, that nothing beyond a string of fine concert pieces can be salvaged from Imeneo.
As we have seen on other occasions, Handel was not a vindictive person. Paolo Rolli, who had deserted him for the Opera of the Nobility, was now taken back into Handel’s good graces, and the wily and indestructible Italian rewarded him with a good libretto for Deidamia. Rolli, an inquisitive character who carried on an extensive correspondence, was evidently familiar with the latest operatic developments in Italy, at the same time keeping a weather eye on the popular English theatre, especially the ballad opera. While the libretto of Deidamia is not an opera buffa, it is decidedly comic in intent, if in a more subtle way than the contemporary buffa, perhaps as a result of Handel’s discussions with the librettist, for, as we shall see, Handel had positive views on this subject. We know that he was not interested in opera buffa, but also that he had a good sense of humor, and that from Faramondo onward he was groping for a type of comic opera for which there was no precedent. Nevertheless, Deidamia does approach the buffa a little more closely than Serse, Handel’s one declared comic opera, for the comedy in the former work is not altogether dependent on purely musical means. There are several scenes that are authentic comic opera in the theatrical sense.
On this occasion Rolli did not find it necessary to observe the traditions of the seria and proceeded to create good theatre. The story, taking its subject from the Trojan War, is well spun. The Greek kings on their way to Troy visit Lycomedes, whom they suspect of hiding Achilles. The oracle having told them that without Achilles they cannot succeed, the allied kings, Fenice (Phoenix), Nestor, and Odysseus, decide to ferret out the great hero, who is disguised as Pyrrha, one of the palace ladies. The leader of the group is Odysseus, an accomplished diplomat; we shall follow the Latin form used by Rolli and call him Ulysses, though here he is disguised as Antilochus.
The opera opens with a grave and splendid overture; but Handel’s mocking intent is immediately made clear by the following aria of Deidamia, Lycomedes’s daughter, delicately accompanied, which shows an ambiguity that is far removed from the spirit of the seria. She not only suspects the identity of Pyrrha but lets the listener understand, if he follows both text and music closely, that she knows Achilles more intimately than her innocent protestations would indicate. That Achilles, for a girl, is quite an enthusiastic huntsman worries Deidamia lest his disguise be detected. Her misgivings are expressed in a lilting minuet aria. Even Achilles’s declaration of love (with a proviso for the paramount rights of the warrior) is in this delightful dance idiom. Nerea, the princess’s confidante, attractively characterized as a sort of soubrette, is let in on the secret and promises assistance in charmingly tuneful, coquettish music. The resourceful Ulysses has a pretty good idea where to look for the great general and sees the means at hand; accordingly, concealing both his real identity and the fact that Penelope is waiting for him at home, knitting, he resorts to the old stratagem of extracting information by making love to Deidamia. At the same time, he instructs Fenice to open a second front with Nerea. The act ends with a “nightingale song,” which, though one of those simile arias that can bedevil the action, is very charming and appropriate for the spot.
In the second act, Ulysses decides on more ardent wooing. Deidamia, anxious not to alienate him, does not protest, for while Ulysses is busy with her Achilles is safe. This scene is really a conversation galante and the music is no less galante, minuet-like, and full of refined little melodic turns. Achilles, listening from behind some bushes, is furious at this apparent acquiescence of Deidamia, and so is the music of his aria. Deidamia’s following arias are all beautifully turned, even rising to the chromatic pathos of old. Nerea comes along, informing her mistress that Fenice has been making similar advances to her, and suggesting that both of them continue to play the game. Presently a stag hunt is organized by Ulysses, the ladies to play the part of Diana. What Ulysses wants to see is how the maiden Pyrrha handles the spear. Upon seeing her performance he no longer has any doubts. The scene where Lycomedes and his guests are getting ready for the hunt, solo and chorus nicely alternating, is dotted with short, simple, popular melodies. Dent correctly and very amusingly calls this chorus “beefy” in the English manner. There are indeed English characteristics, not “beefy” but Purcellian, in many another spot of this opera.
Now Ulysses attempts the dangerous trick of trying to make love to Pyrrha, hoping he can coax an admission from the embarrassed Achilles, but the move fails. Moreover, Deidamia overhears the scene, and now Ulysses finds himself under crossfire. At this point the opera frankly turns toward the buffa, as in desperation Ulysses tries to convince each of his sole devotion to her. He is ably abetted by Handel, who in the same aria provides different accents for the different appeals. After Ulysses leaves, Achilles gets a tongue-lashing from Deidamia, a superb aria di carattere, but her perfido and barbaro do not sound convincing; Handel is mocking, for the music is delightfully light. The intended travesty on the pathos of the seria is only enhanced by the fine middle portion of the da capo aria, where Deidamia gravely announces that the only solution to her predicament is death. The fermatas and the general pauses emphasize her dilemma in hochpathetisch style. Fenice, who also tries the courting game with Pyrrha-Achilles, concludes in no uncertain terms that “No, che ninfa non è,” which is genuinely funny where its exact counterpart in Siegfried —“Das ist kein Mann!”—is merely ridiculous.
Rolli outdoes himself in the third act; the trap laid for Achilles is pure comic opera and excellent theatre. The crafty Ulysses invites the ladies of the palace to select presents from a treasure chest, but among the finery are hidden some weapons and a helmet. When Pyrrha sees these accoutrements of the warrior “she” forgets about ribbons, laces, and trinkets and reaches for the sword. At this moment a trumpeter, stationed outside by Ulysses, sounds an alarm. “The enemy is upon us,” cries Ulysses, and before realizing that he is giving himself away, Achilles discards his disguise and rushes out to get at the invaders.
This excellent comic scene is followed by a serious exhortation, as Ulysses reminds the boyish Achilles that he owes his services to the Hellene cause. The unfrocked lady enthusiastically declares that he would like nothing better than to fight Hector, brandishing the sword and singing an aria that could come out of one of Verdi’s operas: “Ai Greci questa spada sovra i nemici estinti.” He no longer sings minuets but a heroic song, the orchestra seconding with fanfares. Rolli’s skill is still in evidence in the next scene. After the stage empties, Ulysses is left alone with Deidamia, whom he tries to comfort. With mingled anger and sorrow she protests that since he has robbed her of her lover, what good are his words to her? She hopes that he will perish with his ship at sea. Ulysses understands her feelings and answers in a fine extended aria, distinguished by elaborate motivic work.
After everyone has assumed his rightful name and status, Handel turns to love music. Deidamia sings a tender aria; Nerea’s is a more extroverted song. In the finale all are on the stage. First we hear a remarkable duet, sung by the principal pair, a busily hopping gigue—Handel has his tongue in his cheek, for everything in this brilliant piece smacks of “fooling.” The pleasant final chorus draws the sound moral that opportunities of the moment should be enjoyed on the spot.
Deidamia would delight audiences even without any historical conditioning, but this extraordinary masterpiece must be properly prepared for a revival. There is a modern performing edition of the opera, published by Rudolf Steglich, which is a good beginning. With Dent he was one of the few to recognize Deidamia as a viable masterpiece; even Leichtentritt, usually a warm admirer of just about everything Handel wrote, is lukewarm towards this work. Walter Serauky, perhaps the most uncritical—and certainly the most prolix—worshipper of Handel, nat
urally has boundless admiration for Deidarnia, which he expresses in no less than seventy pages, only to come to the conclusion that this opera is still another triumph of German versatility. To return to Steglich and his laudable efforts to make this score available to theatres, the musicologist in him unfortunately gets the better of the man of the theatre: his stage directions are naive where they should be sophisticated, his concept is Romantic and German, where it should be modern and Italian. One glance at the personnel of the first performance will show that for modern audiences the distribution of the roles is forbiddingly lopsided. Deidamia was sung by soprano Francesina, Nerea by soprano Monza, Achilles by soprano Edwards, Ulysses by castrato soprano Andreoni, Fenice by countertenor (i.e. alto) Savage—five high voices to one lone male voice, the bass of Reinhold who sang Lycomedes. (Nestor does not sing.) While this is bad enough, Achilles, a female soprano, is disguised as a girl! It was not unusual in those days to write a male part for a soprano or alto as distinguished from a castrato, but in the case of Achilles this causes a theatrically impossible situation, contradicting Rolli’s often almost da Pontean lines of believable comedy. All this will have to be considered by an enlightened editor, and he must also bear in mind that in most cases the original simple arias are preferable to the second, virtuoso, versions.
George Frideric Handel_Dover Books on Music Page 44
