Handel (39 page)

To the end of his career as a working musician Handel was unable to count on anything consistent in the patterns made by triumph and catastrophe. It might have been supposed that nothing could endear him, as the King and Queen's favourite master, to the slightly pathetic figure of the Prince of Wales, desperately courting popular sympathy in his role of unwanted child, yet Frederick's residual loyalty finally drew him to Handel's cause during the early summer of 1736. George and Caroline had settled on a bride for their son in the person of the seventeen-year-old Princess Augusta of Saxe-Gotha,
and the wedding and its preliminaries were hustled along with the indecorous haste that marked so many of the ceremonial occasions in George II's bizarre family life. Eager to get off to his mistress in Hanover, George bullied his ambassadors into hurrying home with the Princess tucked, as it were, into their luggage, and she and Frederick were married on 27 April, two days after her landing at Greenwich.

In a characteristic atmosphere of bickering among the Prince, his parents and his sisters, the wedding took place at nine in the evening in the chapel at St James's, handsomely adorned for the event. Lord Egmont was among ‘a prodigious crowd' present and noted that ‘Over the altar was placed the organ, and a gallery made for the musicians. An anthem composed by Handel for the occasion was wretchedly sung by Abbot, Gates, Lee, Bird and a boy.' The speed with which the wedding had been set on had clearly not left enough time for rehearsal of
Sing unto God
, an altogether more inspired offering from the composer than his earlier effort for the Princess of Orange.

In addition to the anthem, Handel provided a royal wedding opera,
Atalanta
, brought on at Covent Garden on 12 May. He had in fact completed the score some three weeks earlier, but so as to bring it into line with the general air of expedition dictated by the King's notorious impatience it was rushed into rehearsal at once, while ‘great Numbers of Artificers, as Carpenters, Painters, Engineers, &c.' busied themselves with the specialized scenic arrangements of the last act, and the singers went through their paces in a revival of
Ariodante
.

Good fortune for
Atalanta
was, as usual, underwritten by spectacular visual effects and the presence of a new castrato. ‘The Fore-part of the Scene represented an Avenue to the Temple of
Hymen
, adorn'd with Figures of several Heathen Deities. Next was a Triumphal Arch on the Top of which were the Arms of their Royal Highnesses, over which was a Princely Coronet. Under the Arch was the Figure of
Fame
, on a Cloud, sounding the Praise of this Happy Pair. The Names
Fredericus
and
Augusta
appear'd above in transparent Characters.' Further elements of the confection included embracing Cupids supporting the princely arms and ‘Loves and Graces bearing Hymeneal Torches, and putting Fire to Incense in Urns, to be offer'd up upon this joyful Union'. In addition there was the risky but exciting bonus of a firework display in the last scene, managed by a Mr Worman, who had devised a contraption for producing a fiery fountain,
which he showed off again five years later at Cupers Gardens on the South Bank, using the
Atalanta
music.

‘The new man' was the celebrated Gioacchino Conti, nicknamed Gizziello (from his Neapolitan teacher Domenico Gizzi) and perhaps, in terms of sheer vocal artistry, the most effective rival to Farinelli Handel had yet been able to produce. ‘He goes five notes higher, with a true natural voice, & is sweet to the very top,' reported Charles Jennens. It was indeed Farinelli who had encouraged Gizziello to persevere with his London engagement after his own singing had apparently caused the younger eunuch to burst into tears and eventually to faint away in despair. Just as well, for of all Handelian castrati (Guadagni possibly excepted) he seems to have been the most refined in manner and execution. ‘Handel never till now', says Burney, ‘had a first man to write for with so high a soprano voice. Nicolini, Senesino and Carestini were all
contraltos.
There was often dignity and spirit in their style, but Conti had delicacy and tenderness, with the accumulated refinements of near thirty years, from the time of Handel's first tour to Italy. I think it is not difficult to discover, particularly in the first act, that in composing Conti's part in this opera, he modelled his melody to the school of his new singer. Indeed, Handel was always remarkably judicious in writing to the taste and talents of his performers; in displaying excellence and covering imperfections.'

Such features are more obviously marked in
Atalanta
than in several of the operas surrounding it, though the Covent Garden company remained fundamentally the same (apart from the substitution of Conti for Carestini) from 1734 until 1737. Based on Belisario Valeriani's libretto
La caccia in Etolia
, originally set by Fortunato Chelleri for the Ferrara opera, the story is a light-hearted treatment of the spirited courtship of Atalanta and Meleager, and the format owes much to the type of comedy cliché reflected on a rather less sophisticated level in
Il Pastor Fido
, making use of contrasted couples in a pastoral setting and rounded off with ceremonial festivity. Beard and Negri, as Aminta and Irene, the secondary pair, were given altogether more superficial material than in
Ariodante
, where they sang Lurcanio and Polinesso, and this is typical of the work as a whole, in which the studied contrast of various elements creates the ideal divertissement for bored and fractious royalty. In fact, Frederick and Augusta did not attend the première. The prince ‘order'd a play at Drury Lane, which carry'd away most of the Company',
but the absence of bride and groom was made up for by the King George, Queen Caroline and five of their children ‘accompanied with a very splendid Audience'.

Slight though
Atalanta
is, each of its three acts contains arresting features. Both Conti and Strada, as the protagonists, were given spectacular entrances, the former at the very beginning of the opera in the arietta ‘Care selve', designed to exhibit his ‘new, graceful and pathetic style of singing', and the latter halfway through Act I, as Atalanta leading the shepherds in pursuit of the wild boar, which she slays in Meleagro's presence. Rather like Norma, Atalanta is hardly ever off the stage from the moment she first appears and the brilliance of her arias, culminating in ‘Bench'io non sappia ancor', with its play upon rhythmic alternations, shows how carefully Handel had nurtured Strada's talent so as to project it to maximum advantage. As Meleagro Conti was allowed to display more than a mere soulful elegance: both in ‘Non saria poco', which ends Act I, and in ‘Tu solcasti il mare infido', just before the concluding jubilations, his virtuosity, evidently based on his agility in negotiating divisions, with the assistance of an impressive upper register (he is the only castrato for whom Handel wrote a top C) glitters through the light-textured orchestration.

As a pair, the two characters inhabit the opera more fully than many another Baroque couple. Their encounter in Act II, growing out of a rustic chorus of Atalanta's followers accompanied by antiphonal oboes and horns over the strings, forms a continuous movement, with Atalanta's ‘Lassa! ch'io t'ho perduta' springing directly from her last words in recitative and a superb duet, starting in arioso style without ritornello and only gradually turning into a fully organized piece as embarrassment develops and Atalanta mocks Meleagro's desperation.

The audience were probably much less excited by this than by the rousing trumpet overture, featuring the talents of Valentine Snow, with its Telemannesque allegro and extended gavotte. The poet Thomas Gray was present on at least one
Atalanta
night and described the firework effects to Horace Walpole. ‘Conti', he adds, ‘I like excessively in everything but his mouth which is thus; but this is hardly minded when Strada stands by him.'

It was not as if all this enthusiasm were going to save Handel. The violinist Matthew Dubourg at Dublin was told by a friend that

. . . the two opera houses are, neither of them, in a successful way; and it is the confirmed opinion that this winter will compleat your friend
Handel
's destruction, as far as the loss of his money can destroy him . . . On Tuesday last, we had a new opera of Handel's; and at the appearance of that great prince of harmony in the orchestre, there was so universal a clap from the audience that many were surprized, and some offended at it. As to the opera, the critics say, it is too like his former compositions and wants variety – I heard his singer that night, and think him near equal in merit to the late
Carestini
, with this advantage, that he has acquired the happy knack of throwing out a sound, now and then, very like what we hear from a distressed young calf . . . As to the Operas, they must tumble, for the King's presence could hardly hold them up, and even that prop is denied them, for his majesty will not admit his royal ears to be tickled this season. As to music, it flourishes in this place more than ever, in subscription concerts and private parties, which must prejudice all operas and public entertainments.

If he and the Nobility managers were facing the realities of economic disaster in the phenomenon of two opera companies trying to survive on the patronage of a small public in a city where opera-going was still identified with foreignness, decadence and Popery, Handel nevertheless found several things to cheer him during the summer. Allusion to a country retreat in a letter to his friend Lord Shaftesbury at the end of June suggests another visit to Tunbridge Wells, and in August he wrote to his brother-in-law Michaelsen with congratulations on his niece Johanna Friederika's marriage to Dr Flörcke, professor of law at Halle University, sending a gold watch, a chain and two seals as ‘
un petit présent de Nopces
' for the bridegroom, and a solitaire diamond ring ‘
de la première Eau et de tout Perfection
' for the bride. In September he was confirmed as music master to the Princesses Amelia and Caroline at £200 per annum, and the following month an outstanding castrato joined the Covent Garden company in the person of Domenico Annibali, star of the Dresden court opera.

The new season, destined to prove, in most other respects, so disappointing, began in festoons of royal patronage. The Prince and Princess of Wales appeared at an
Alcina
revival,
seated in a box adorned with white satin and ‘a flaming heart between two Hymenaeal Torches, whose different Flames terminated in one Point, and were surmounted with a Label, on which were wrote, in Letters of Gold, these Words,
MUTUUS ARDOR
'.
Atalanta
was revived on the Princess's birthday, 20 November, ‘in order to give their royal Highnesses a view of ye Fireworks' and Annibali's debut was planned with
Poro
, always a favourite with the royal family.

Mrs Pendarves rightly praised the strengths of the company – ‘Strada, that sings better than ever she did; Gizziello, who is much improved since last year, and Annibali, who has the best part of Senesino's voice and Caristini's, with a prodigious fine taste and good action' – and looked forward to Handel's two new operas. ‘He was here two or three mornings ago
and played me both the overtures
, which are charming.' The first of the pair,
Arminio
, though finished on 14 October 1736, was not brought on until 12 January 1737, perhaps because the
Poro
revival had had to be postponed as Strada had gone down with influenza. Despite the admiration of Handel's friends and unflagging support from royalty, the new piece was not popular and sustained only five performances.

Few commentators on Handel have ever cared for
Arminio
. The libretto, by Antonio Salvi, originally for Pratolino performances in 1703, based on the story of the German hero Arminius – Hermann – as treated by Tacitus, is adequate, though it never grabs the imagination with quite the force of the same author's
Rodelinda
or
Ariodante
. The characterization is patchy, failing to offer Handel an opportunity to explore a really wide range of emotions. Arminio, his wife Tusnelda, and Sigismondo (the Conti role) are each very strongly drawn and receive a musical treatment that goes beyond a mere display of agility. Varo, the Roman general, and the German prince Segeste are allowed too easily to fade into insignificance, while Tullio, sung originally by the contralto Maria Caterina Negri, has the kind of commentator's role more usually given to a bass.

Handel was not sufficiently concerned to give the drama real momentum. The most arresting sequence occurs during the early scenes of the last act, where the absence of a middle section and da capo in two of the numbers and a sense, in Sigismondo's ‘II sangue al cor favella', of the action being pushed along by musical means, indicate the composer's close involvement
^*(o)
with the text. The structure of this aria is brilliantly unconventional:
no introduction, five bars of the voice moving in unison with the first violins, unsupported by any bass, a further six bars during which the word
favella
(speaks) is appropriately extended, and only in bar twelve the appearance of the continuo line. Even then the character is almost allowed to break down on the words
salvarlo
and
svenarlo
as he contemplates the choice between betraying Roman trust and killing Arminio. Thence the accompaniment lines fragment into a series of agonized semiquaver gasps as Sigismondo's dilemma increases.

There is little enough of such originality elsewhere. Apart from the twenty-four-bar oboe solo for Sammartini introducing Sigismondo's ‘Quella fiamma', most of the instrumental colour is saved for Act III, where two horns and flutes are featured, and the strings play mostly in separate parts. But
Arminio
's main shortcoming is its lack of those good tunes we have a right to expect from Handel, whose gift for melody matches that of a Mozart, a Schubert or a Bellini. The opera is otherwise notable for containing no simile arias, for being one of only two Handelian dramas to open with a duet, and for containing the most fatuous of those portmanteau lines for which Salvi had such a dire penchant: