Part 1

Chapter 13,599 wordsPublic domain

George Frideric Handel

HERBERT F. PEYSER

Written for and dedicated to the RADIO MEMBERS of THE PHILHARMONIC-SYMPHONY SOCIETY of NEW YORK

FOREWORD

Handel’s long career resembles a gigantic tapestry, so bewilderingly crowded with detail, so filled with turmoil and vicissitude, with vast achievements, extremes of good and ill fortune, and unending comings and goings that any attempt to force even a small part of it into the frame of a tiny, unpretentious booklet of the present sort is as hopeless as it is presumptuous. Handel is far more difficult to reduce to such minuscule dimensions than his greatest contemporary, Bach, whose worldly experiences were infinitely less diverse and colorful, for all the sublimity, mystical quality and epochal influence of his myriad creations. The supreme master of florid pomp, Handel bulked much larger in the perspective of his own day than did, in his, the composer of the “Passion According to St. Matthew.” In spite of an everlasting monument like “Messiah,” the most popular choral masterpiece ever written, we may, however, ask ourselves if the body of Handel’s music is as widely known and as intimately studied as it deserves to be. How many today can boast of a real acquaintance with Handel’s operas (there are more than forty of them alone) apart from a few airs sung in concert; how many can truly claim to know by experience any of the great oratorios apart from “Messiah” and, possibly, “Judas Maccabaeus” and “Israel in Egypt?” Yet outside of such monumental works, Handel was time and again a composer of exquisitely delicate colorations, and sensuous style, not to say a largely unsuspected master of many subtle intricacies of rhythm. The present pamphlet, wholly without originality or novelty of approach, may, perchance, induce the casual reader to renew his interest in Handel’s prodigious treasury, so much of it neglected, not to say actually undiscovered by multitudes of music lovers.

H. F. P.

George Frideric Handel

_By_ HERBERT F. PEYSER

Some wit, comparing Bach and Handel, remarked that both masters were “born in the same year and killed by the same doctor.” Born in the same year they unquestionably were, Handel almost an exact month before his great contemporary. Halle, where Handel first saw the light, is a comparatively short distance from Eisenach, where Bach was cradled. It lies not far from the eastern boundary of that Saxon-Thuringian country which harbored some of the imposing musical figures of Germany during the 17th Century. Such names as those of the famous “three S’s”—Schein, Scheidt and Schütz—of Kuhnau, Krieger, Melchior Franck, Ahle, Rosenmüller, echo powerfully through the history of that period.

George Frideric Handel was born on Monday, February 23, 1685. That the name has been variously spelled need not trouble us; strict consistency in such matters lay as lightly on folks of this epoch as it did in the age of Mozart. However, it may be pointed out that in this booklet “Frideric” is retained in place of “Frederick” because Handel himself repeatedly used this form and because the British authorities thus inscribed him when he became a British citizen.

The Handel family came from Silesia, where Valentine Handel, the composer’s grandfather, had been a coppersmith in Breslau. George Handel, the father, had been “barber-surgeon,” attached to the service of Saxon and Swedish armies, then to that of Duke Augustus of Saxony. For a time he prospered and in 1665 he bought himself “Am Schlamm,” at Halle-an-der-Saale, a palatial house, which in the course of years barely escaped total destruction by fire. In any case, Father Handel was to know the ups and downs of fortune; and the vicissitudes he endured did not sweeten an always morose and surly character. He has been described as “a strong man, a man of vast principles, bigoted, intensely disagreeable, a man with a rather withered heart.” A portrait of him gave Romain Rolland “the impression of one who has never smiled.” He was twice married, the first time to the widow of a barber, a woman ten years his senior, the second to Dorothea Taust, a pastor’s daughter, thirty years his junior. By the first he had six children, by the second four, of whom George Frideric was the second.

Father Handel was 63 when his great son came into the world. The future composer of “Messiah” was born, not in the elaborate edifice which carries his bust and is inscribed with the titles of his oratorios, but in the house adjoining it which stands on a street corner and whose official address is Nicolai Strasse 5. Yet even this statement must be qualified. For this presumable “birthplace” was not built till 1800 and, according to the researches of Newman Flower, stands on the _site_ of the house in which Handel was born. As for the town of Halle, it had definitely passed after the death of the Duke Augustus of Saxony, to Brandenburg; so that, strictly speaking, Handel was born a Prussian. But, as Rolland has noted, “the childhood of Handel was influenced by two intellectual forces: the Saxon and the Prussian. Of the two the more aristocratic, and also most powerful was the Saxon.” At all events, after the Thirty Years’ War the city of Halle, during the Middle Ages a center of culture and gaiety, had fallen into a drab provincialism.

Apparently the child’s musical susceptibilities developed early and rather like Mozart’s, even if unlike the latter, he had not the benefit of a friendly and understanding father. Who has not seen at some time or other the picture immortalizing the precocity of “the Infant Handel?” The story goes that the indulgent mother had smuggled a clavichord into the garret. In the dead of night the child crept to the attic till the father, aroused by faint tinklings, came with a lantern to investigate. Whether or not the clavichord was confiscated the result of the parental raid was a stern prohibition of all sorts of music-making. Some of us may be reminded by this apparent heartlessness of a rather similar punishment visited on the youthful Bach, when his elder brother deprived him of music he had painfully copied out by moonlight for his own use.

The elder Handel’s motive was, according to his own lights, perhaps quite as defensible. He had no wish to see a son of his degraded to the rank of a lackey or some form of vagabond, than which a musician at that time hardly seemed any better. The barber-surgeon fully shared the prejudice of the average “strong man” against the artist. Rolland describes the bourgeois middle class German attitude of the 17th Century on the subject of music: “It was for them a mere art of amusement, and not a serious profession. Many of the masters of that time, Schütz, Kuhnau, Rosenmüller, were lawyers or theologians, before they devoted themselves to music.” And old George Handel is supposed to have threatened: “If that boy ever shows any further inclination towards music or noises disguised as such, I will kill it!” There was, indeed, one way in which the boy could with a certain impunity satisfy his craving for music—in church, by listening to the organ and the singing of the choir. Such enjoyment supplanted to some extent the games and childish pleasures of ordinary boys. He was, it appears, a somewhat lonely child, who made few friends and whose “playground” was a dismal courtyard opposite his home.

The father settled on the law as a fine, honest and lucrative profession for his son. Jurisprudence was to rescue Handel from the snares of music, just as in time it was to be the “salvation” of Schumann, as school mastering was by paternal decree to be the destiny of Schubert, and medicine that of Berlioz. Here, too, it was quite as ineffectual! All the same, the youth was not to escape his share of legal study; and by the time he reached 16 he entered the University of Halle as “studiosus juris.”

About eight years earlier, however, fate in the paradoxical shape of Father Handel himself took a hand in George Frideric’s future. He had his son accompany him on a journey to nearby Weissenfels, the residence of the Duke of Saxony. That personage asked the lad to play something on the chapel organ and was so stirred by what he heard that he counselled the obdurate father not to thwart the child’s ambition. From an ordinary person the hard-boiled parent would have taken such advice in very bad part; coming from the mouth of a prince it acquired the force of a command. So he decided to allow his son to study music with the unspoken reservation, however, that he must belong first and foremost to the law. Actually, these musical studies might be said to have begun in Weissenfels, for here young Handel had a chance to hear some of the works of the Nürnberg master, Johann Krieger; and in this same town, a mere stone’s throw from Halle, he had his first taste of opera, which was to thrust deep roots in his soul.

The boy was now entrusted to the care of Friedrich Wilhelm Zachow, from Leipzig, who at an early age had become organist of the Halle Liebfrauenkirche. Zachow appears to have been an uncommonly gifted teacher and Handel’s devotion to him never wavered. As we read Romain Rolland’s words we are strangely reminded of the ideals and methods of Theodor Weinlig, Wagner’s unique master of composition: “Zachow’s first efforts were devoted to giving the pupil a strong foundation in harmony. Then he turned his thoughts towards the inventive side of the art; he showed him how to give his musical ideas the most perfect form, and he refined his taste. He possessed a remarkable library of Italian and German music, and he explained to Handel the various methods of writing and composing adopted by different nationalities, whilst pointing out the good qualities and the faults of each composer and in order that his education might be at the same time theoretical and practical, he frequently gave him exercises to work in such and such a style.... Thus the little Handel had, thanks to his master, a living summary of the musical resources of Germany, old and new; and under his direction he absorbed all the secrets of the great contrapuntal architects of the past, together with the clear expressive and melodic beauty of the Italian-German schools of Hanover and Hamburg.”

Around 1696 George Frideric is supposed to have gone to Berlin, though about this and possibly a subsequent trip a short time afterwards the chronicles give no clear account. Father Handel was seriously ill and, as it is unlikely that the 11-year-old student went to the Court of the Elector of Brandenburg alone, the assumption is that he made the journey in Zachow’s company. Be this as it may, the artistic enthusiasm of the Electress, Sophia Charlotte, stimulated musical activities at the electoral court and attracted thither outstanding Italian composers, instrumentalists and singers. And it may well have been here that the youth was first brought into contact with the music of the South. He played on the clavecin before a princely audience and stirred it to such enthusiasm that the Elector wished to take him into service or at least finance a trip to Italy, to complete his studies. But if we are to believe Mainwaring, Father Handel did not wish his son “tied too soon to a prince.” Furthermore, the old man’s health failed so alarmingly that he knew his days were numbered and wished to see the boy once more before he died.

Hardly was George Frideric back in Halle when the barber-surgeon went to his account. The youth wrote a memorial poem which was published in a pamphlet and proved to be the first time his name ever appeared in print. After settling her husband’s affairs Dorothea Handel went about carrying out his wishes regarding her son’s legal studies. In a spirit of duty he continued them a while; but soon after his completion of his college classes and his entrance for the Faculty of Law at the Halle University music gained the upper hand completely. He was religious without sentimentality but as little as the youthful Bach did he have any sympathy with Pietism (of which the Faculty of Theology was a hot-bed at the time) and was violently opposed to the Pietist antagonism to music. And when the post of organist at the Cathedral “by the Moritzburg” fell vacant by reason of the dissolute habits of a roystering individual named Leporin, Handel was made his successor, though the church was Calvinist and the young newcomer a staunch Lutheran.

There was now an end to all thoughts of jurisprudence. Music claimed him solely. Handel was only 17 but seems already to have exercised a strong musical authority in Halle. He assembled a capital choir and orchestra from among his most gifted pupils and let them be heard on Sundays in various churches of the town. Like Bach and other masters of that astonishing period, he composed an incredible number of cantatas, motets, psalms, chorales and devotional miscellany, which had to be new every week. It must not be imagined that he allowed them to wilt or evaporate. Handel’s mind was a storehouse, whence nothing ever escaped and in which was always stocked away and held in reserve for future use.

In the summer of 1703 he left his native city; not, indeed, forever, but only for occasional visits to relatives and friends, when professional business allowed him time. From Halle he turned his steps toward Hamburg, which had suffered little from the wars of the 17th Century, and grown rich, gay and artistic in consequence of enviable business prosperity. Commercial benefits were, of course, reflected in a musical expansion which raised the Hanseatic port above the level even of Berlin and made it the operatic city of the North. In Hamburg, notes Rolland, “they spoke all languages and especially the French tongue; it was in continual relationship with both England and Italy, and particularly with Venice, which constituted for it a model for emulation. It was by way of Hamburg that the English ideas were circulated in Germany.... In the time of Handel, Hamburg shared with Leipzig the intellectual prestige of Germany. There was no other place in Germany where music was held in such high esteem. The artists there hobnobbed with the rich merchants.”

The Hamburg opera catered to various factions which did not invariably see eye to eye. One of these factions consisted of persons who sought in operatic entertainment out and out amusement; the other, of individuals with a religious bent, who regarded the average fantastic and extravagant opera as an invention of hell—_opera diabolica_. When Handel arrived the lyric theatre was making history guided by the composer, Reinhard Keiser. Under Keiser’s management Hamburg became a home of opera in the German tradition. Some of these “German” operas were coarse and in atrocious taste. Hugo Leichtentritt tells, for instance, of a work called “Störtebeker und Gödge Michaelis” (music by Keiser), a story about piracy on the high seas, with executions and massacres, in which bladders filled with sow blood and concealed beneath the costumes of the actors would be perforated in such a manner that the appalled spectators were spattered with a gory shower, often resulting in a stampede.

Keiser, though a person of unstable character and extreme presumptuousness, had indisputable genius. He was not yet 30 when Handel came to Hamburg and under him that city experienced its golden age of opera. To be sure, the weakest feature of the Hamburg Opera was the singing. For a long time the institution had no _professional_ singers. The roles were taken by students, shoemakers, tailors, fruiterers “and girls of little talent and less virtue,” while ordinarily artisans “found it more convenient to take female parts.” A gifted Kapellmeister named Cousser, who had been a pupil of Lully in Paris, introduced important reforms and when Handel in 1703 arrived the moment was, in truth, a psychological one. “He was rich in power and strong in will,” wrote the 22-year-old Johann Mattheson, the first acquaintance he was to make in Hamburg. Rolland pictures Handel as having “an ample forehead, a vigorous mouth, a full chin and a head covered with a biretta” (rather after the manner of Wagner, of whom throughout his life Handel reminds one in some amazing traits of character and genius).

Under Keiser the adventurous newcomer soon found employment as a second violin in the opera orchestra. His particular intimate was Mattheson, a musician of many gifts and uncommon versatility, who united in himself literary talents, a critical flair and a highly volatile temperament. It was he who helped Handel find pupils and who guided him into the town’s important musical circles. So that before long Handel had access to the organ lofts of Hamburg’s churches and opportunities to compose works for ecclesiastical purposes. Mattheson, incidentally, was a linguist and spoke perfect English; and it was through him that Handel was to enter for the first time into negotiations with what was to become his second country.

It was not very long, however, before the temperaments and idiosyncrasies of the two brought them into collision. Mattheson criticised the music of his friend, perhaps not entirely without reason, complained that Handel was not the most perfect of melodists and that he often wrote at too great length. If these opinions may have nettled the younger man they were not wholly lost on him, as time was to show. In the early months of their friendship Handel and Mattheson went to Lübeck to listen to the playing of the renowned Danish organist, Dietrich Buxtehude, whose celebrated Abendmusiken at the Marienkirche were likewise a magnet which drew Bach away from his duties in Arnstadt. The young men were deeply stirred by the music of the venerable master and Handel stored away in his incredibly retentive memory ideas which were to fertilize his imagination in later years. The two youths actually competed for the post of organist and might, like Bach, have won it but for the provision that whoever succeeded a retiring organist in Lübeck had to marry the daughter—or widow—of his predecessor. In this case the daughter seems to have been more than usually undesirable and, like their famous contemporary, the excursionists from Hamburg turned their backs on Lübeck.

Presently the friendship was imperiled once more, this time with what might have been disastrous results. In October, 1704, an opera, “Cleopatra” which Mattheson had composed to a text by a certain Friederick Feustkling, was produced with the composer in the part of Mark Antony and Handel at the harpsichord. The piece won a success, but on a later occasion Mattheson (Antony being “dead”) hastened into the orchestra and tried to push Handel from the instrument. A quarrel flared up immediately, which seems to have broken up the performance and have lasted half an hour. In the end the throng repaired to the Gänsemarkt, outside the theatre, the pair drew swords and set upon one another. Almost at once the combat came to an end, Mattheson’s blade splintering against a metal button on Handel’s coat. “The duel might have ended very badly for us both, if by God’s mercy my sword had not broken,” the young firebrand was to write later. The reconciliation was not immediate but when it did come about the two dined together, then betook themselves to the theatre to a rehearsal of Handel’s first opera, “Almira.” The representation, on January 8, 1705, was an instant triumph for its composer. The Hamburgers were completely captivated by the freshness and manifest genius which the score exhibited. Mattheson had sung the tenor part but does not seem to have been overjoyed by his friend’s spectacular success.

Handel was spurred by his fortunate operatic debut to embark on a second work. The fact that “Almira” had been sung partly in Italian, partly in German, did not keep it from obtaining twenty performances at the outset. Handel made the mistake of interrupting its run because he believed that in his next opera, “Nero, or Love Obtained Through Blood and Murder,” he had written something better. Mattheson sang the part of Nero; but the opera died after only three hearings. To aggravate matters the Keiser regime, now largely discredited, gave promise of putting an end to the Hamburg Opera; and Handel began to see himself enmeshed in the catastrophe of the wreck, a victim of elaborate jealousies and intrigues.

* * *

In 1704 he had made the acquaintance of an Italian prince, Giovanni Gaston del Medici, an adventurer and a notorious profligate, whose father was Grand Duke of Tuscany. He was astonished that Handel seemed so little interested in Italian music, including some specimens he set before him. Handel insisted that “angels would be necessary to sing them if such stuff were to sound even agreeable.” At this time his ambition was to create a German style, independent of foreign influences. And for Keiser’s successor, Saurbrey, Handel turned out a new opera, “Florindo und Daphne”, which, like Wagner’s “Rienzi”, proved to be so long that the composer caused it to be given in two parts, “for fear”, he admitted, “that the music might tire the hearers.” Then, without taking leave of Mattheson or any of his friends, he accepted the prince’s invitation and went to Italy.