The Persians are nearing, and the Jews predict the fall of Baal, but not yet jubilantly; “Bel boweth down” is a dark, menacing piece. Belshazzar, fortified with wine, decides to make a stand, but is immediately cut down. Gobrias, in a moving larghetto lament (“To power immortal”) tries to forget the past and hope for a better future, which is promised by Cyrus: “Destructive war, thy limit know; here tyrant Death, thy terrors end.” The aria again tests Handel’s powers, for the oriental potentate acts like an English general touched by the Enlightenment. But Handel gave the piece a tone that completely neutralizes the platitudinous sentences; what we hear is a paean of victory with an accompaniment unusually rich for a solo air, as oboes, trumpets, and timpani are added to the orchestra. The ritornel is an almost jaunty tune, the kind one cannot dismiss from one’s mind for days. It is the composer who speaks here, not the reform monarch. The great dramatic duet that follows, and in which Nitocris bows at the victor’s feet while Cyrus offers himself as a son to replace the slain one, is marked by the nobility of its melody, the stateliness of the accompaniment, which has stretches in ostinato, and the manner in which the antiphony of the voices is arranged. Daniel’s short recitative, which follows, is a little unctuous; but the minute the soprano intones the engaging dance tune, “Tell it out among the heathen,” he is forgotten. This is a happy transplant. The fifth Chandos Anthem, I will magnify Thee, reworked with care for the occasion, is most appropriate for the grand ending Handel envisaged. While the score does not so specify, the soprano and alto solos in the last portion of the great anthem are clearly meant to be sung by Nitocris and Cyrus. Serving as a compound finale, the wondrous piece steadily rises to a flooding Amen.
Belshazzar bears evidence of a craftsmanship that alone would make it a monument. It is well constructed and has distinction of style. Here, in contrast to the classical dramas Semele and Hercules, the da capo aria is used sparingly; Handel relies on the dramatic flexibility of the arioso combined with passages in accompanied recitative. The latter, also used in choral numbers, reaches great intensity in this oratorio. The ritornels are long, elaborate, and often descriptive-programmatic; thematic elements from them are used as symphonic subject-matter binding together several numbers. In general, the scenes in Belshazzar tend to be large interlocking structures, a prefiguration of the “reform” opera of the next half-century. Borrowings are few, the one significant instance being the fifth Chandos Anthem at the end of the work. This was a happy idea, not accidental but deliberate and well planned. Handel discussed the employment of the anthem with Jennens, a fact that sheds considerable light both on his dramaturgical concepts and on the question of borrowings. (See below, p. 559 ff.) The “military music” comes from the English semi-opera, and several other numbers show a decidedly English quality. Interestingly enough, it is in Belshazzar’s songs and the choruses of his banqueting people that this is most noticeable. Their popular tone —and popular tunes—have the quality of English folksong.
But there is far more in this work than skilful execution. Setting aside questions of craftsmanship, there is a splendor, an intensity, a vibrant feeling in Belshazzar that make it one of the greatest of Handel’s dramatic works, one of the most convincing demonstrations of poetic-dramatic genius. So ardent was the creative fervor that Handel, impatient with Jennens’s slow delivery of the libretto, precomposed many important numbers, which subsequently had to be changed to suit the occasion and the available personnel. There is an embarrassment of riches to choose from, because the several versions are often equally fine and attractive. Neither the Chrysander nor the Macfarren edition of Belshazzar is satisfactory in this regard, though Chrysander at times does print one alternate version. The new Halle edition should print all of them, with considered recommendations as to the final choice. Provided with this material an intelligent conductor would know how to proceed.
The first performance of Belshazzar, on March 27, 1745, featured Handel’s reliable cast: Beard (Belshazzar), La Francesina (Nitocris), Miss Robinson (Cyrus), and Reinhold (Gobrias). Susanna Cibber was to take the part of Daniel, but there seems to be considerable doubt that she actually sang in the initial performance; her absence would account for some of the hasty revisions and transpositions that Handel made before the premiere. There were two repeat performances, but the oratorio was unsuccessful. The subscription season dragged on, and Handel once more risked Messiah, though still not naming it by its title. But the concerts refused to catch fire and after the sixteenth of the projected twenty-four performances the enterprise was called off altogether. Thus ended the season on April 23. It also ended Handel’s connections with the Haymarket Theatre, the scene of so many of his triumphs and tribulations.
Handel’s friends, especially such devoted ladies as the Countess of Salisbury, paint in their correspondence a sad picture of his plight, but the popular story of his renewed “bankruptcy” is once more false. Handel’s financial situation was precarious—there is the melancholy note of his offering the two organs at the Haymarket Theatre at a bargain price —but he met his obligations. The records show that all his singers were paid. Speaking of the singers, we must also bear in mind that perhaps Handel’s troupe also had something to do with the unsuccessful season. His faithful cast was not exactly youthful. The prima donna, La Francesina, was well above fifty, and so was Reinhold, while Miss Robinson was nearing the half-century mark. Only Beard and Mrs. Cibber were young, but then they had undistinguished voices. Far worse was the matter of Handel’s health. Evidently he suffered another physical collapse; not only did the “palsy” return but also the mental fatigue that had plagued him when he was forced to seek the cure at Aachen. The Earl of Shaftesbury found that at the end of October (1745) Handel looked “somewhat better,” but, significantly, in expressing hope for full recovery, the Earl remarks that “he has been a good deal disordered in his head.”
XVII
1745-1748
Handel recovers but is a changed man—Shuns public and does not compose—Stuart rebellion rouses dormant creative instinct—The “victory” oratorios—Occasional Oratorio (1746)—Battle of Culloden commemorated in Judas Maccabaeus (April 1746)—Morell’s libretto—The music—Instant success—Handel abandons subscription system—Mixed opinions about Judas Maccabaeus—Handel and Morell continue with successful recipe: Alexander Balus (1748)—The music—Joshua (1748)—End of “occasional” oratorio phase—Handel’s life and position changed-His status unassailable—Gluck visits London—New singers trained by Handel—His calm and serene life
WE DO NOT KNOW WHAT EVENTS FOLLOWED THE closing of the unfinished series of subscription concerts, except that Handel was ill, physically and mentally, and that he must have gone somewhere to recuperate. At sixty he was no longer able to carry the enormous burden of the double life of composer and impresario with the robust defiance of earlier years, and it seems that the collapse and near tragedy in 1738 had permanently diminished his fantastic stamina. Yet it was only the year before the present defeat that Handel had reached the highest peak in his artistic career when in a dozen weeks or so he composed Hercules and Belshazzar, an accomplishment still unexampled in the history of music. So it could not have been sterility that now silenced him, but natural exhaustion; everything had gone into the making of these colossal masterpieces. Whatever the nature of his ailment, a brief rest still sufficed to restore him to action, and his combative spirit drove him back to London. Sometime late in August 1745 he returned, perhaps from Tunbridge Wells or Cheltenham; and while he was still showing signs of strain, the few who met him reported that the composer was on the way to recovery, and the “disorder in his head” had subsided. He must have had some plans, because he leased the Covent Garden Theatre for the coming Lenten season.
But the Handel who returned to the Brook Street house was nevertheless a changed man; his heartiness and optimism were gone, he shunned the outside world, and his creative instinct was almost completely dormant. The only ascertainable compositi
on from this barren year is an Italian chamber duet, Ahi nelle sorti umane, his last in the genre. Curious, how during times of internal conflict and indecision he always turns to the fountainhead—Italian melody. When we read the reports of sympathetic friends about Handel’s appearance and demeanor during the last subscription performances—the women among them especially were good observers—we realize that something beyond fatigue was reflected by the melancholy, wan appearance of this man of usually commanding presence. Handel was fully aware of what he had accomplished in Hercules and Belshazzar; we have many testimonials that the critic in him was quite distinct from the impresario. The almost complete lack of understanding for these masterworks must have hurt him deeply, and he must have been puzzled about his future course. Would oratorio end in fiasco as had opera? The months went by and nothing was heard from Brook Street, and it seemed that the aging composer would have to subsist on the annuities received from the court. Not altogether surprisingly, it was a political event that roused him from his creative slumber, and once more he struck into the current at exactly the right moment.
Prince Charles Edward, the Young Pretender, landed in Scotland to claim the throne of England for the Stuarts. Sir John Cope, the English commanding general in Scotland, had been defeated; Edinburgh opened its gates to the Stuart prince, and soon his army rolled south from the border. His triumphant advance to Derby frightened Hanoverian London to the very recesses of its soul. There was a run on the Bank of England, and in the absence of a substantial regular army, all sorts of volunteer corps were formed; even the lawyers of the Middle Temple exchanged wigs for helmets. The threat to London caused a temporary disappearance of many a timid heart from the capital, and to the King Hanover seemed a very inviting place.
Stirring slowly, Handel at first contributed a few patriotic songs, but caught up in the martial fervor, he soon decided upon a more massive demonstration. The old flair for responding to the atmospheric pressure asserted itself and now came an entr‘acte in his creative life, which Dean aptly calls the period of the “victory oratorios.” They were also personal victories, hard won because a good deal of this did not suit his dramatic genius. The first two of the new works, the Occasional Oratorio and Judas Maccabaeus, have since called forth extremes in judgment that vividly illustrate the still shaky and often simply emotional attitude taken by devout Handelians. The Occasional Oratorio was, to be sure, as Young calls it, “plain propaganda” for Protestantism and the reigning dynasty. But to both of these Handel was genuinely devoted. Moreover, if seen in the light of its own day, the Occasional Oratorio was magnificent propaganda. For us this work has lost not only its effectiveness but its very raison d’être, but to the besieged English in London it was a dignified and splendid appeal to national unity in tempore belli. Granted, it was thrown together in a couple of weeks, for Handel had to hurry; the rebels had been repulsed, but the decisive battle was yet to come. A pasticcio it was, and most of the borrowings are familiar, but it contained some pretty solid fare, and the wild glory, the vast cascade of sound of the fine choruses (from Israel in Egypt and other works and equipped with new texts) gave Londoners the uplifting sense of crowded and important events. Those who peremptorily dismiss it as a “hodgepodge” violate the historian’s Xenophonic oath. The German scholar Arnold Schering saw in the Occasional Oratorio a demonstration that “Handel participated in the fate of his adopted country with all his heart.”
While the Occasional Oratorio retired into the dust that lies heavy upon forgotten splendor and stands today with the forlornness of a burnt-out firework, Judas Maccabaeus, filled with the same dead-alive grandiosity, was and is acclaimed as a supreme masterpiece. The most famous of the oratorios next to Messiah, and the work that finally turned Handel into a national institution, henceforth unassailable, is a child of many of the previous oratorios, and the parent of not a few composed in many lands after Handel’s death. Yet Judas Maccabaeus was also an occasional oratorio. It has many borrowings, its construction is tenuous, and it contains a fair amount of insignificant or unillumined music. But it also has many eloquent numbers showing Handel at full stature. To call it, with Young, “a decline into claptrap,” or with Herbage to consider it a shamelessly cynical exploitation of the low artistic instincts of the “groundlings,” is to be far off the mark. Equally mistaken are those who read into this simple and somewhat haphazard collection of airs and choruses profound moral and religious parables, and consider it a monument of German fortitude. Indeed, there are even voices—recent ones—declaring Judas Maccabaeus to be fully the equal of Messiah.
Once more we should take a glance at history. The public that lived through the Spanish and Austrian wars and the Stuart rebellion was eager to hear Britain praised. They were not so naive as the Elizabethans, who wanted to see duels and murders and love-making; they were the successors of the Puritans and wanted to see the empire as divinely ordained. The powers attributed to music as a patriotic evocation and tonic antedate recorded history, and they are still called upon. The piècc d’occasion is a dangerous form, however, and the sea of musical history is strewn with craft that came to grief because they were overladen with homage. In one of his books Malraux says: “It is not emotion that destroys a work of art, but the desire to demonstrate something.” No such disaster, however, threatened Handel in Judas Maccabaeus, which bore its cargo triumphantly to port. The harsher critics see only that there is neither dramatic continuity nor design and that much of this music lacks inwardness; they ignore the vigor of the rest. In such a work neither great complexity of design nor great subtlety of tone is to be expected; Judas Maccabaeus is stirring rather than moving, but the choruses often display a rugged and elemental beauty. And they also display the brilliance of a genius who even when he nodded would never wholly abandon his prerogatives. We may safely declare that nothing Handel wrote illustrates so well his tremendous effectiveness as a composer for occasions as does Judas Maccabaeus .
The Occasional Oratorio was composed sometime in January 1746, that is, before the decisive victory. A morale booster, its ceremonial, anthem-like rhetoric was bolstered by a text patched together from Milton’s psalm translations. There is a certain plan in this oratorio, though there is no structure. The first part depicts the “misery of the world” and the “threatening vengeance,” warning the nation that “scattered like sheep, ye perish on your own way.” But Jehovah will sustain the English. The second part extols liberty and expresses renewed trust in God, whose “mercies shall endure.” The bass solo, “To God our strength,” and the following chorus, a great anthem, exude confidence and a sense of power. Leichtentritt and others here detect echoes of Ein’ feste Burg, which is possible, but to call this small excerpt from the tail end of the first sentence of the chorale a “cantus firmus” and the piece itself the “old German form of Choralbearbeitung” is patently a fantasy. The concluding Hallelujah Chorus is solid and impressive. In the third act the “warlike ensigns wave on high,” “trumpets pierce the vaulted hall,” and the Duke of Cumberland is promised that “millions unborn shall bless the hand that drew the sword in virtue’s cause.”
The oratorio ends, quite appropriately, with a festive chorus—but it is none other than the Coronation Anthem Zadok the Priest.
For the purpose for which this pasticcio was put together it was no doubt admirable, but today, with its many borrowings firmly associated with their original habitat (it is somewhat disconcerting to hear the famous hailstones rain down anew, this time presumably on the Scots), the Occasional Oratorio is little more than a historical document. Interestingly enough, it is the first act that contains most of the original music, and good music at that; apparently Handel’s creative power returned overnight once he summoned it. The national-dynastic homage is most prominent in the second act, ending in the Hallelujah Chorus mentioned above, a grand and elaborately contrapuntal piece. Acts Two and Three are made up of numbers taken from Athalia, Israel, and others—half of the third act is from the l
atter oratorio; what new music is in these acts is negligible.
The unfilled subscription concerts of 1745 still worried Handel, as can be seen from the General Advertiser of January 31, 1746. “We hear, that Mr. Handel proposes to exhibit some Musical Entertainments on Wednesdays or Fridays the ensuing Lent, with Intent to make good to the Subscribers (that favoured him last Season) the Number of Performances he was not then able to complete ... “ The notice also was the first news in many months about Handel, and the. first intimation that his creative activity had been rekindled. The Occasional Oratorio was announced for February 14 in Covent Garden. The previous year’s subscribers received free tickets, and the oratorio, well received, had two repeat performances in the same month. These three performances constituted the entire Lenten season of oratorio for 1746—a modest resumption of the activities of both the creative artist and the entrepreneur, but a definite resumption it was.
George Frideric Handel_Dover Books on Music Page 60
