Samson was the mainstay of the six subscription concerts announced on February 12. Apparently the Dublin experience had convinced Handel that he must return to the subscription system if a guarantee of financial returns was to be achieved. The response was so encouraging that the series was extended to eight concerts, and on March 12 a second set of six evenings was announced. On the eighth night, L’Allegro ed il Penseroso and the St. Cecilia Ode were given with the usual concertos; on the ninth night “A New Sacred Oratorio” was advertised without a name. Handel was cautious; this time he did not challenge, rather he tried to smuggle in Messiah on the coattails of the successful Samson. But Messiah, presented on March 23, was unsuccessful. Religious scruples, of which Handel was well aware, played a large part in this, but the musical reasons were not negligible. As with Israel, the public missed the “story,” the lack of arias, and was surfeited with “too many choruses.” The delicacy of such things as the “duet choruses” (see p. 346) was unappreciated by most contemporaries. After three performances Messiah was quietly given up for this season, as well as for the next.
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WITH THE CLOSE OF the season Handel returned to creative work. There are indications in the spring of illness; Mainwaring and others mention “some return of his paralitick disorder.” If so, it must have been soon shaken off; Semele was composed in June, Joseph in August-September. The Battle of Dettingen, in which George II led his victorious army—or was led by his horse—took place on June 27. The glory of the sovereign had to be properly celebrated; accordingly, in the last two weeks in July, Handel composed a great Te Deum (see above, p. 228). Sung at the Chapel Royal on November 27, the Dettingen Te Deum impressed everyone by its martial splendor. Thus passed 1743. The next Lenten season of oratorio, announced on January 9, 1744, was initially planned for twelve performances. Semele opened the series on February 10, and with it the London public was once more treated to an unexpected and radical change in style, subject matter, and conception, for which their only preparation was the announcement’s careful wording: “After the Manner of an Oratorio.” The public expected Handel to act the musical poet laureate who in his works returns thanks for his purse, but neither Messiah nor Semele showed this gratitude in suitable form.
Was Handel’s “conversion” so complete that henceforth he was to dismiss every memory of opera? We have noticed that Samson is not really a choral drama; its many arias and recitatives are of vital importance. One has the impression that Handel was consciously attempting more than a rapprochement between opera and oratorio, even a virtual reform of the music drama. After Samson he found the formula, for Semele is a new type of music drama: English opera, in which the dramatic element shifts from the contemplative chorus to high personal tragedy. Mainwaring saw this as early as 1760: “Semele is an English opera, but called an oratorio, and performed as such.” Dr. Delany, though a great music-lover and of course thoroughly indoctrinated by his wife in Handelian lore, did not attend Semele because the “profane story” was too operatic for a clergyman. The many highly dramatic accompanied recitatives, which are often descriptive, the ensembles, among them an unusually fine quartet and a number of duets, the almost exclusive use of the da capo aria (even in the choruses), and the unmistakable presence of Venetian and French operatic traits—all these take Semele bodily from the genus oratorio. We cannot therefore agree with Julian Herbage (in Handel, a Symposium) that Semele is “totally unlike his Italian operas, and shows unique understanding of both the English masque and the Purcell-Dryden semi-opera.” Semele certainly shows Handel’s thorough understanding of the English lyric stage, and he made the most of it by combining with great skill two traditions: English masque and semi-opera with Italian opera. But the dramatic action, the recitatives and arias, are pure opera, Italian-descended opera, the stylistic ingredients always clearly in evidence. Herbage himself says that “the dramatic continuity of the last act is remarkable, and is effected through the exclusive use of accompanied recitatives and the omission of the chorus.” Indeed, the more Semele advances, the more the operatic comes to the fore, and masque and semi-opera—let alone oratorio—are left behind. Recent German attempts at compromise terminology—oratorische Choroper—are also mistaken; Hermann Abert correctly identified the operatic nature of Semele decades ago. Percy Young, in his book on the Handelian oratorio, is quite explicit on this point: “Semele, not being an oratorio at all but an English opera without action, falls outside our terms of reference.” This masterpiece of airiness, ingenuity, and exquisite finish was a long step backward—and upward. It was as if Handel looking backward repented his repentance.
All good Handelians of the old school were uncomfortable with Semele. Chrysander’s preface consists of one short paragraph on the middle of the page.
The libretto has the curious title The Story of Semele. As it is Perform’d at the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Alter’d from the Semele of Mr. William Congreve, set to Musick by Mr. George Frederick Handel. MDCCXLIV. The title, History of Semele, was chosen because its secular tone excluded the designation “oratorio,” while its oratorio-like nature did not permit the use of the term “opera.” Nevertheless, Congreve undoubtedly wrote Semele (1707) as an opera libretto and it failed to find a composer solely because its lack of dramatic force made it unsuitable for the stage. By making certain changes, Handel was able to treat it as an oratorio, and we call it that in the sense in which we used the term for Hercules.
Brief as this preface is, it is full of contradictions as well as faulty information. The work continued to languish even after the English editors dampened its amorous ardor by deleting or changing lines. Thus Semele, with music that is irresistible and as fresh as when it was composed, has long suffered from the silly prejudices of an “insensible” (to use a good 18th-century term) bourgeois civilization, though its more recent neglect was due less to prudery than to inertia and musical illiteracy. The Oiseau-Lyre recording of 1958 and various recent performances, some staged, seem to indicate a growing awareness of the exceptional qualities of this wondrous tragedy of love.
The libretto of Semele was not the work of an amateur, but of a great English comic dramatist and impeccable stylist, William Congreve. Written early in the century, it was published in 1710 as “An Opera,” and indeed it was originally planned for John Eccles, who set it in 1707. More precisely, the performance of Eccles’s opera was announced in 1707, but there is no indication that it was actually produced. Chrysander was unaware of Eccles’ setting, but surely a hundred years later it is inexcusable for a Handelian scholar to ignore the score, preserved in the British Museum. Serauky, obviously working, as usual, from antiquated secondary sources, in this case copying Chrysander, flatly states that Handel was the first to attempt the composition of Congreve’s book. But Handel did not set the original libretto; it was arranged for him by someone, perhaps, as Winton Dean guesses, Newburgh Hamilton. The arrangement is quite serviceable and the graceful ease of Congreve’s dialogue is preserved. The additions are skilful, and the arranger was evidently under instructions to find more opportunities for the musician than Congreve provided. He also eliminated some lines that must have been thought offensive, but even what was left after these excisions shocked the English and puzzled the Germans. Handel found the piece very congenial; he liked the Greek myth (Congreve combined Euripides with Ovid) and composed it as a human drama, without any deference to the supernatural status of some of the figures. He found ample opportunity for the creation of characters, and the uninhibited passion of the protagonists fired him to write love music of pervasive beauty and ardor.
Semele was composed in a spirit of content; the pure fancy of its melody shows this. The creative rapture is clearly in evidence in the total lack of borrowings. Handel so skilfully intermingles narrative with moments of lyric intensity that the story becomes a sustained song; but the love lyric is in the carnal mode, the passions are deep, intimate, and undisguised. Semele is an opera of love, a radiant work cel
ebrating, with a kind of ecstasy of the senses, the glory of a woman’s form and presence. Handel approached it with masculine feelings, with a purely human—even heathen—energy. There is no sentimentality in his concept; in the tragedy of love what matters is love,
Love that is first and last of all things made, The light that has the living world for shade.
Contrary to certain interpretations, there is absolutely nothing symbolic in Handel’s treatment of the story. Semele, daughter of King Cadmus of Thebes, loves Jove, who courts her in the guise of a mortal. She is also loved by Athamas, prince of Boeotia, who in turn is loved, though secretly, by Ino, Semele’s sister. We are dealing here with a timeless love quadrangle (to which we may add Juno, with her jealous attachment to her husband), the very stuff of the lyric stage. The lyric cries and protests against the bondage of earthly life hold communion with yearning in a profoundly human sense altogether free of the supernatural. Indeed, perhaps we should reverse Anatole France’s line: Les dieux sont cruels guand un homme les agite.
Semele is a beautifully developed character, a very real if unusual woman who takes shape and becomes vital in her first sentences, stays alive throughout the work, and is still living after it is finished. She seems to be half-numbed by her great passion, a complete egoist wholly devoted to the rapture of the moment, a voluptuous, yielding coil of flesh, who nonetheless is possessive and demanding. Juno is a fine portrait of a jealous woman who will not rest until she destroys her rival by any means at her disposal. And, as we know from mythology, she had a good deal of experience in such matters. At that, she does not lack nobility, and hers is the most forceful personality in the entire cast, a superb characterization. Jove is not really the “mighty thunderer”; all he wants is to make love, and in his eagerness to attain his desire he makes mistakes unbecoming to a god. But beneath that exterior there is revealed a nature capable of deep feeling and a personality who in the end is shaken rather than frivolous. Somnus, the God of Sleep, is engagingly drawn, with a goodly touch of the Italian buffa, but Iris remains quite impersonal. Nor do Athamas and Ino attract Handel’s full attention; both of them are rather pale accessories, though Ino is not without passion. Cadmus, the old King, being a grieving father, Handel warms to him; his uncomprehending sorrow is touching. The chorus has a reduced role in Semele, but it forms an integral part of the drama, and its music is throughout of exceptional quality.
Semele begins with a broad and strong overture, though its third part is a delicately pensive gavotte whose rhythm and tone are carried over into several of the songs. The opening chorus, “Lucky omens,” immediately creates an operatic situation; this is not an anthem but a wedding ceremonial. The rhythm is still dancelike and remains so in the choral fugue that ends the scene. No one knew better than Handel that in essence the fugue is a dance piece. But this finely wrought choral piece, like most of the others in Semele, merely furnishes the background; it does not, as in Saul or Samson, enter the drama proper. The latter is immediately evident, though as yet without tragic overtones. King Cadmus urges his daughter to “invent no new delay”; it is time to “obey, hear, and obey.” Athamas, a bit pompously, repeats the King’s demand. This at once indicates that these two are dealing with a rebellious woman who will not marry against her choice. The real world does not exist in the face of all-embracing love, and just as Juliet is absolutely indifferent to the fact that Romeo killed Tybalt, her kinsman, Semele cares neither for her father nor for her suitor, addressing herself to her lover, Jove. Handel immediately shows us what manner of woman she is: the wide interval of the ninth on “Oh Jove” cuts into the innocuous scene with instantaneous fervor. This is opera music of the first water, the voice part later punctuated with eloquent, “composed” pauses. In her next aria, “The morning lark to mine accord his note,” Handel slips a little into the old routine of Baroque opera, for this is a “bird” or “lark” song like the many delightful ones he composed as simile arias.
Presently the dramatic situation becomes tense, for neither Athamas nor Semele understands Ino’s state of mind, and they are surprised at her outburst, “I can no longer hide my passion.” The old king is also distressed by the behavior of his two daughters. Here something extraordinary happens. Handel unites the four principals in a quartet, a genuine dramatic ensemble. This piece, quite unusual in Handel’s day (though, as we shall see, Solomon has an equally remarkable trio), does not resemble anything in any masque or oratorio; it is of a type that was to become the glory of opera. Every one of the figures retains his individuality, and Handel makes them enter the ensemble one by one at the right psychological moment. Now the chorus falls in, adding an effective postscript to the fears and indecisions expressed in the quartet. The choral setting is Handel at his sturdiest. Cadmus and Athamas are dismayed as the flame on the altar dies, but Semele sings—“aside,” say the stage directions—“Thee Jove, and thee alone, thy Semele adores.” Everyone is now angry, and the chorus explodes with wrath: “Cease your vows,” it thunders, “’tis impious to proceed” with the nuptial ceremony, and the cast is virtually expelled except for Ino and Athamas.
Ino pleads, “Turn, hopeless lover, turn thy eyes.” The aria is carefully constructed, but Ino still appears a somewhat pale woman. Athamas, unable to grasp the situation, tries to comfort her in a brotherly way, which does not make the music glow. Ino, realizing that her oblique allusions are wasted, bursts out into a rather fiery recitative, “Insensible! Ingrate!” whereupon Athamas finally recognizes the true portent of her complaints. The following duet aptly illustrates their predicament; Athamas is shocked at the discovery of unrequited love, and Ino is dismayed at having lost her head. Since both are now emotionally aroused, their music picks up in intensity.
Now comes a typical example of Baroque operatic deus ex machina: Jove, in the shape of an eagle, abducts Semele. While Cadmus in a touching accompanied recitative is crushed by this turn, the chorus does not see any calamity; instead it congratulates Cadmus in a fine dance tune, because a member of his house has risen to the rank of divine mistress. The horns added to the orchestra lend it the joyous sound Handel always likes to give to the heathen. After this, Semele’s voice is heard from above to the tune of a delectable gavotte: “Endless pleasure, endless love Semele enjoys above.” The aria was originally not intended for her (it is written in the third person), but Semele surely sings in character, leaving the impression that she can hardly contain herself recounting the delights of love. The music is so ravishing, its lucid directness, its sensuous-poetic power so pervasive, that the act-ending chorus can do no better than appropriate it, further enhancing its charm with fine madrigalesque imitations.
After a remarkable—and capricious—sinfonia, the second act opens with Juno questioning the Olympian messenger, Iris, who tells Jove’s wife about the “sweet reatreat” of her rival, and the pleasures she is enjoying, the music resembling Galatea’s in its neat galant simplicity. Juno is incensed, and this magnificent woman elicits strong music from Handel. In a particularly expressive accompanied recitative, “Awake, Saturnia,” marked allegro concitato, she vents her rage, warning the whole universe of the consequences of her wrath. This recitative, abounding in affective text illustrations, is one of the most dramatically expansive of all Handel’s recitatives. After Iris’s description of the formidable monsters that guard the lovers’ retreat, Juno, far from being intimidated, sings an impassioned aria, “Hence, hence, Iris hence away.” This da capo aria, magnificent in its élan, uses the middle section to give Juno a brief respite at the mention of Somnus, the God of Sleep, but after that her frenzy returns.
The scene changes to Semele’s palace. “She is just awakening and rises,” say the stage directions, which Handel carries out admirably. Semele begins her song unaccompanied, as if still half asleep. “Oh sleep, why dost thou leave me?” is a continuo aria, rather rare at this stage of dramatic music, but Handel resorts to it so that he can altogether concentrate on the singing voice. Semele does n
ot want to awaken because that would rob her of her dreamy bliss, yet while she appears to be a woman completely absorbed and satiated by sensual pleasure, we realize that all is not well; the tragedy is already hinted at, for she senses that her rapture cannot last. When Jove appears he is greeted with a short recitative: “Let me not another moment bear the pangs of absence.” Jove answers in a fine aria, “Lay your doubts and fears aside,” but the tone is galant and not quite convincing; there is something evasive in his protestations that “though this human form I wear, think not I man’s falsehoods bear,” adding that “Love and I are one.” Significantly, the aria is a dance piece, a minuet-saraband, with a smoothly gliding melody and elegant accompaniment.
The galant song is followed by a rather sober little recitative in which the god reminds Semele that she, being a mortal, needs a little rest once in a while. Semele, now alert, immediately answers Jove’s “Love and I are one” by contending that “not you alone, but Love and I are one.” The construction of her aria is extraordinary, for the lilting dance rhythm is in contrast with the coloraturas, which have a strange urgency about them, nor is the tonality of D minor a happy one. The concluding chorus once more pays handsome tribute to the masque; its text is new, “How engaging, how endearing is a lover’s pain,” but the musical substance is from Semele’s aria. In the light and graceful choral version there is even more of the undertone of passion and disquiet than the same music had when Semele sang it.
Now Semele begins to tempt the fate that will ultimately destroy her. She complains that “I am a mortal, still a woman.” This disturbs Jove; “Aiming at immortality [is a] dangerous ambition.” In an aside he concludes that he must “amuse her, lest she too much explain.” Jove repeatedly sings “apart,” which in an “oratorio” performance is altogether lost. The ensuing chorus, Alla hornpipe (“Now Love that everlasting boy invites”), is love music, delightful in rhythm and in sound, the garlands of imitations in the orchestra caressing the voices. Jove decides that Semele needs a playmate; he will fetch Ino from Boeotia, so that the two sisters can romp together like happy nymphs in Arcadia. The aria he sings, “Where’er you walk,” is indeed Arcadian (a poem borrowed by the arranger from Pope), but aside from its bewitching melody, it is an incomparable masterpiece in the way the vocal and instrumental parts are woven together. An astonishing feature of this miracle of melody is that though poetic and pastoral, it is not descriptive—the leaves are lacquered. The dreamy piece—Largo e pianissimo per tutti, demands Handel—is a paean of love that became famous all over the world. Some of the other songs, equally admirable, deserve to be equally well known.
George Frideric Handel_Dover Books on Music Page 56
