There is yet a summit beyond this peak; indeed, the act-ending chorus is perhaps the absolute summit of Handel’s choral art; it was so considered by the composer himself. “He saw the lovely youth” is a recounting of the parable of the youth whom the Lord raised to life in Nain. The chorus is epigrammatic without being false, packed without being obscure. This is the mysterious moment of the union of the internal and the external, the soul and the form, the content and the expression. For this is the aging composer’s profession of faith, a faith not limited to the narrow terms of stated articles; it is like the harmony of the spheres which no human ear can hear but which the human mind feels with elation. The piece, in the sombre key of F minor, begins with a funeral dirge in the orchestra, upon which is built a severe vocal setting in continuous imitation. But when Christ commands “Rise, youth!” the texture becomes entirely homophonic, even descriptive, interpreting the motion of the young man. Now something like a double fugue begins, the themes again interpreting the words, leading to a final utterance of considerable and eloquent power.
Irene, this most musically attractive of all confidantes, opens the third act with another magnificent song, “Lord to Thee each night and day strong in hope we sing and pray.” The aria is full of extraordinary melodic “irregularities.” In the middle part, where the text speaks of convulsive earthquake and rolling thunder, the tone changes as Handel indulges in his favorite nature pictures. But inwardness never leaves Irene’s song; the orchestra alone is pictorial, though neither vehemently nor literally descriptive. Clearly, Handel refused to be distracted from Irene’s prayer. Yet Morell’s cataclysmic words must have brought back memories of the many animated and dramatic nature pictures of the past, otherwise he would not have hurled the chilling Neapolitan sixth into the closing cadence; it is far too strong a dramatic effect to be mated with the words “still to Thee we sing and pray.” In the aria “When sunk in anguish and despair” the intriguing metric asymmetry returns, combined with a capricious rhythmic scheme. The orchestra has a quietly lively accompaniment, but the voice is serenely unperturbed. The Christians respond to the story of Theodora’s escape with a fine chorus, “Blest be the hand and blest the power that in this dark and dang’rous hour sav’d thee.” The construction of this piece is once more extraordinary. Starting without a ritornel, and vaguely in the manner of a fugue, it immediately lapses into homophony, twice repeated; though the themes are typical fugue subjects they are not so developed, and Handel savors the full sound of the homophonic chorus. Thus the poet triumphs over the conventional. Now Theodora like a precentor gives the chorus a theme, “Lord, favour still the kind intent.” The procedure is still the same, for the chorus freely alternates between polyphony and homophony, but when the ripieno sopranos take up Theodora’s motif in earnest, as a quasi cantus firmus, the setting assumes the quality of a chorale paraphrase. A remarkable piece, this, and most suitable for the spot.
A messenger announces that the rescue plot has been discovered, and now Didimus is threatened with death. Theodora resolves to return to prison to save Didimus, answering Irene’s anxious questions firmly. The duet they sing is one of the few fast pieces in the oratorio; in a situation such as this there is no time for extended discussion. The piece is not only swift in tempo, it is what the French call serré; not a chamber duet but altogether dramatic. Neither voice is permitted to develop a melody, there is a constant give and take, but the last word is Theodora’s: “I must obey.”
Irene’s subsequent aria in C minor, “New scenes of joy,” shows this courageous woman admirable in adversity. Unfortunately, she has to face not only a tragic situation but also Morell’s singularly inept words—the text makes little sense at this juncture in the drama. In the face of impending tragedy Irene sings of “new scenes of joy.” Perhaps Morell had in mind Christian rejoicing in martyrdom, but he certainly made a mess of it. This did not prevent Handel, his creative impetus still unbroken, from writing exceptional music by ignoring the words; the purely musical-emotional momentum is so strong that the literary factor must take second place. But the audience cannot altogether ignore the words, and unless a new text is fitted to it, the great aria will remain obscure. Irene’s melody is simple, though the motto theme is one of Handel’s typical wide-ranging pathetic themes; it is again left to the orchestra to develop it. Handel worked with manifest care; the polyphony is both subtle and pervasive, the da capo written out so that the composer could indicate his own little melodic variants. There is no ritornel, only the one-measure motto is stated.
The ensuing “court scene” is introduced by a recitative that in Chrysander’s edition is obviously severely cut. In five brief sentences Valens expresses astonishment at the Christian ethics of disobedience and condemns Didimus to “repentance or death.” Didimus justifies his stand, Theodora offers herself to expiate Didimus’s crime, while Septimius, a little fatuously, comes to the conclusion that there is “virtuous courage” even in the female sex. The long da capo aria Septimius presently sings is an exceedingly well-made minuet-like song, but it is galant, righteous, and distant; Handel’s Septimius is not a character of full integrity. He holds that “from virtue springs each generous deed,” and goes on to urge, “Let justice for the hero plead, and pity save the fair.” The only show of emotion is in the last part of this sentence. Morell undoubtedly meant all this to be taken at face value, but Handel did not care for Septimius; he wanted either a true Roman or an avowed Christian. Valens fulfills Handel’s requirements in his air (furioso), “Cease, ye slaves, your fruitless pray’r.” The opening sentence is like a trumpet call and is echoed by the strings. This is a compact piece and could have done without the traces of “rage” coloratura of old that Handel understandably carried at the back of his mind.
In a recitative, Didimus and Theodora offer their lives for each other, which prompts the Christians to comment with all the majesty of the ancient Greek choros. The sombre piece carries us back to the spirit of “He saw the lovely youth,” the great chorus at the end of the second act, for Handel again searches his own soul. Under the guise of the conventional act-ending number he presents a meditation upon the mysteries of love and death. The theme of “How strange their ends, and yet how glorious” is another borrowing from Clari, but it magnificently suits the sense of our mortal instability that informs this chorus; what Handel made of the borrowed theme is sheer miracle. In a way, this piece, in which emotion is not so much recollected in tranquillity as evoked by it, is the climax of the act, although it does nothing to precipitate the dénouement. Indeed, arriving at this point in the oratorio, one has vague apprehensions about Handel’s frequent habit of losing interest in post-dénouement matters. This tremendous chorus expresses everything; what can come afterwards? The immediate dramatic needs the composer fulfills quite properly. The pair pleads before Valens in secco recitative; they renew their contention that each of them alone has incurred the penalty of death. Whether Morell the classical scholar wrote out of knowledge of the Roman mind or just naively hit upon the authentic tone, Valens’s reaction to this is characteristically Roman. “Are ye then judges of yourselves? Not so our laws are trifled with: if both plead guilty, ’tis but equity that both should suffer.” Then he dismisses them with an aria, “Ye ministers of justice, lead them hence.” The brief aria is most appropriate, and its brisk, angular melody expresses the prefect’s annoyance and impatience, as well as the finality of his decision. For some unknown reason Chrysander relegated the piece to the appendix of the score, though it surely is superior to the perfunctory recitative that replaced it.
But now, with the drama really ended, came the critical moment for Handel. He still had two numbers to compose: the protagonists’ farewell and the mandatory final chorus. First he wrote an aria for Didimus, then a farewell duet for the two martyrs. Though the musical material was superb, the long da capo aria at this point in the drama followed by a duet must have seemed too formal. Then his dramatic sense found a marvelous solutio
n: he combined the two pieces by grafting the duet upon the aria as a substitute for the da capo, a procedure that gives the illusion of Theodora’s song gradually joining Didimus’s. The move required a number of changes which were executed with his wonted skill, the result being a remarkable scene. “Streams of pleasure ever flowing” evoked a simple flowing music. A good deal of the sweet simplicity of southern Italian church music, with its parallel thirds and sighing suspensions, appears here, and most appropriately because all suffering is past, the two lovers are in sight of the Elysian fields.
The final chorus, “O love divine,” is a sublime berceuse, half smiling, half in tears. There is in it an element of abandon amounting to a true surrender in Handel’s yielding to inspiration. Both Schering and Dean liken the chorus to the great lullaby that ends the St. Matthew Passion, and perhaps for once the two great composers of the Baroque who had nothing in common did find a common ground: the singular expression of the identity of poetical and religious feeling.
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MORELL IS OUR WITNESS that Handel valued Theodora more than any other of his oratorios. This was not merely the librettist’s self-compliment; Handel himself made remarks to others that, if not so explicit, corroborate Morell’s statement. The technical quality of the work also indicates that Theodora held an exceptional place in the composer’s affection for his progeny. The construction is tight and controlled to the smallest detail; tempo (mostly slow) and tonality (and concordances thereof) are carefully assigned to the individual numbers, and so are melodic intensity and dramatic pace. Handel borrowed a good deal. A new source appears in Theodora: the chamber duets of Giovanni Carlo Maria Clari (see above, p. 58), but whatever is borrowed is rarely more than an incipit; the finished product is completely beyond the reach of the original composer. One look at Clari’s duets (which Chrysander commendably published in the supplement to the Händelgesellschaft edition) will show this. Only in the overture did Handel use an entire movement, from Muffat’s Componimenti. Bononcini (Griselda) also reappears, and of course our composer lent himself some material from his own works.
Finally, we must account for the presence of a castrato in the cast of an English oratorio, an event that had happened only once before. The role of Didimus was composed for Gaetano Guadagni (c. 1725-1792), a young man who later became one of the great international favorites, creating the role of Orfeo in the first version of Gluck’s opera. Handel admired the voice of this fine singer, who took the trouble to study with Burney and with Handel himself in order to acquire a first-hand knowledge of the English style. Burney praised his ability to sing in English, adding that during his first years in England “he was more noticed in singing in English than in Italian.” Handel subsequently gave many of the roles originally composed for Mrs. Cibber and other altos to Guadagni in revivals. Still, it is difficult to explain why Handel should have employed an Italian castrato at this late stage of his career unless one is willing to grant a nostalgic and half-conscious remembrance of the triumphs of yesteryear.109 In the end, however, all such details lose their significance in the face of the freshness of original genius and the confident mastery over the whole region of his knowledge. Theodora was a remarkable departure for a man of Handel’s age, and an eloquent proof of undiminished openness and plasticity of mind.
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Theodora was first performed in Covent Garden on March 16, 1750, the cast consisting of Reinhold (Valens), Lowe (Septimius), Guadagni (Didimus), Frasi (Theodora), and Galli (Irene). It was a total failure. Some hold that the earthquake that to a degree had emptied London of those who could well afford to attend the theatre was responsible for the near-vacant houses; but the anecdotes connected with the three performances tend to dispute this. Morell relates that Handel said “the Jews will not come to it because it is a Christian story, and the Ladies will not come because it [is] a virtuous one.” Whether true or not, the story is ben trovato. Young puts it more seriously: “[Theodora’s] uncomfortable insistence on the ultimate devolution of Christian values in an unchristian world” was embarrassing to a public that wanted great paeans from the Old Testament, love stories, and vigorous trumpeting in the choruses. Everything seems to have militated for Theodora’s failure. The tragic end, the introversion, both were unaccustomed; nor could the public understand the character of such a figure as Theodora, who does not “wear the robes of formalized virginity” (Dean). Handel’s unwillingness, while according Christians their due, to deprive the pagan Romans of theirs was found objectionable, and there have even been recent voices in England expressing dismay at Handel’s failure to provide a triumphant ending. But though Theodora was the least successful of all the oratorios, Handel treasured it, even trying to revive his favorite in 1759, but death intervened. This shameful fate seems to cling to the great work; it is still unknown and a reliable score remains to be produced. Chrysander’s is too arbitrarily put together, and the omission or abbreviation of many of the recitatives not only hurts dramatic continuity but often destroys it. Macfarren, who followed Chrysander’s edition, outdid the German scholar: being a Victorian prig, he eliminated all references to the punishment contemplated for Theodora, an omission that, of course, gravely affected the dramatic motivation. If Chrysander used the correct text, Handel surely set to music a different one for Macfarren.
A sad postscript must be added to this already sad story. Handel butchered the score of this oratorio right after the first performance, and again in 1755, on the occasion of the sole revival during his lifetime. Fortunately, the original can be reconstructed without undue difficulty.
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WE MUST RETURN TO late December 1749, when within a few days Handel composed incidental music to Tobias Smollett’s Alceste. Smollett, a novelist but eager for theatrical laurels, is said to have offered Alceste to John Rich, who in turn induced Handel to compose the music in lieu of repayment of a debt. Rich went about his plans with a lavish hand. The Chevalier Servandoni, who built the pavilion for the Royal Fireworks, painted the scenery, and a large cast was employed to take care of both the speaking and the singing roles. But Alceste was never performed. The reasons for its abandonment are unknown, though the earthquake could have been one of them. More likely, the obstacles were neither physical nor esthetic. Sensing an impending financial failure, Rich, a shrewd businessman, probably decided to cut his losses before they reached appalling proportions. Alceste was neither opera nor play; it reverted to the pattern of the masque, that is, to a theatre tradition no longer in vogue. Smollett’s libretto is lost, and from the remaining song lyrics we can form but a vague idea of what Alceste may have been, though it was undoubtedly a masque or semi-opera. This being the case, the play was the thing; the protagonists spoke, and the music was of secondary importance. We do possess the complete score, in its present shape no more than a torso, though it must have been a better work than what was ultimately fashioned from it. In the 18th century lost opportunities were seldom final, and the scenery as well as every musical ingredient of the unperformed Alceste was salvaged for other purposes, the bulk of the music going into The Choice of Hercules, while some of the other pieces were used as additions to newly revived oratorios. Alceste was a play in four acts, but since the music was incidental, if played continuously it would not suffice for more than one act. Handel did not attempt to enlarge it to a full-evening affair but cast about for a one-act libretto; apparently the resulting work was to be used as a complement to such shorter works as Alexander’s Feast. In fact, The Choice of Hercules was announced as an additional third act to Alexander’s Feast.
The new libretto to which Alceste’s music was adapted within one week at the end of June provides one of those biographical riddles to which there are a number of possible solutions. Each Handel biographer has had a favorite author, ranging from Spenser to Morell. The confusion, made richer by the misreading and misspelling of names, was greatly lessened by Dean, who established with near certainty that the play was based on an original poem whos
e author was Robert Lowth (1710-1787), clergyman, biblical scholar, and poet. That still leaves us with the problem of finding who made a libretto from the poem. Given Handel’s relationship with Morell during these years of his life, it seems likely that it was the latter who shouldered this task, and perhaps even selected the subject. It does not really matter. The piece is a routine allegory in which Hercules must choose between the blandishments of Pleasure and of Virtue, with Virtue, if not more persuasive than the other goddess, nevertheless the winner. But the piece has some fine music, notably one of Handel’s great ensemble pieces.
While the Smollett play was entirely within the tradition of the English theatre with music, The Choice of Hercules, a lyric work in music, is much more difficult to place. It is neither a full-fledged oratorio nor an English opera, nor can it be called a cantata, though Bach composed a cantata by the same title. Perhaps we should consider it a sort of English serenata.110 At any rate, Handel’s own designation, “a musical interlude,” does not make much sense. At subsequent revivals The Choice of Hercules was placed between the two parts of Alexander’s Feast, which made it an interlude in fact, albeit a totally irrelevant one. But this was an arbitrary arrangement that does not justify the designation.
George Frideric Handel_Dover Books on Music Page 68
