Opera Books
THE OPERA
EDITED BY
ALBERT HILLERY BERGH
VOLUME I.
1909
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Founder of the Modern School of Opera.
Christoph Willibald
Gluck (1714-1787) was the son of a forester. Such musical education as
he received he acquired in Italy, and his earlier works are written in
the Italian style which was fashionable at the time. There are few
indications in his youthful operas of the power which was destined later
to work such changes in the world of opera. He was at first
whole-hearted in his devotion to the school of Porpora, Hasse, and the
others who did so much to degrade Italian opera. Artaserse, his
first work, was produced in 1741, the year in which Handel bade farewell
forever to the stage. It was successful, and was promptly followed by
others no less fortunate.
In 1745, Gluck visited England, where he produced La Caduta de
Giganti, a work which excited the contempt of Handel. In the
following year he produced Piramo e Tisbe, a pasticcio, which
failed completely. Its production, however, was by no means labor lost,
if it be true, as the story goes, that it was by its means that Gluck’s
eyes were opened to the degradation to which opera had been reduced. It
was about this time
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that Gluck first heard Rameau’s music, and the power and simplicity of
it, compared with the empty sensuousness of Italian opera, must have
materially strengthened him in the desire to do something to reform and
purify his art. Yet, in spite of good resolutions, Gluck’s progress was
slow. In 1755 he settled in Vienna, and there, under the shadow of the
court, he produced a series of works in which the attempt to realize
dramatic truth is often distinctly perceptible, though the composer had
as yet not mastered the means for its attainment.
Opera in four acts by
Gluck. Libretto by Caizabigi.
Characters: Orpheus; Eurydice; Amor; chorus; shepherds and
shepherdesses; furies and demons; heroes and heroines; in Hades.
First produced at Vienna in 1762.
In 1762 Gluck produced Orfeo ed Euridice, a work which
placed him at the head of all living operatic composers, and laid the
foundation of the modern school of opera.
The libretto of Orfeo was by Calzabigi, a prominent man of
letters, but it seems probable that Gluck’s own share in it was not a
small one. The careful study which he had given to the proper conditions
of opera was not likely to exclude so important a question as that of
the construction and diction of the libretto, and the poem of Orfeo
shows so marked an inclination to break away from the
conventionality and sham sentiment of the time that we can confidently
attribute much
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of its originality to the influence of the composer himself.
The opening scene shows the tomb of Eurydice erected in a grassy
valley. Orpheus stands beside it, plunged in the deepest grief, while a
troop of shepherds and maidens bring flowers to adorn it. His despairing
cry of “Eurydice” breaks passionately upon their mournful chorus, and
the whole scene, though drawn in simple lines, is instinct with genuine
pathos. When the rustic mourners have laid their gifts upon the tomb and
departed, Orpheus calls upon the shade of his lost wife in an air of
exquisite beauty, broken by expressive recitative. He declares his
resolution of following her to the underworld, when Eros enters and
tells him of the conditions which the gods impose on him if he should
attempt to rescue Eurydice from the shades, Left to himself, Orpheus
discusses the question of the rescue in a recitative of great intrinsic
power, which shows at a glance how far Gluck had already distanced his
predecessors in variety and dramatic strength.
The second act takes place in the underworld. The chorus of Furies
is both picturesque and effective, and the barking of Cerberus which
sounds through it is a touch, which, though its naïvete may
provoke a smile, is characteristic of Gluck’s strenuous struggle for
realism. Orpheus appears and pleads his cause in accents of touching
entreaty. Time after time his pathetic song is broken by a sternly
decisive “No,” but in the end he triumphs, and the Furies grant him
passage. The next scene is in the Elysian fields. After an introduction
of charming grace, the spirits of the blessed are discovered disporting
themselves after their kind. Orpheus appears,
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lost in wonder at the magical beauty of all around him. Here again is a
remarkable instance of Gluck’s pictorial power. Simple as are the means
he employs, the effect is extraordinary. The murmuring of streams, the
singing of birds, and the placid beauty of the landscape are depicted
with a touch which, if light, is infallibly sure. Then follows the
famous scene in which Orpheus, forbidden to look at the face of his
beloved, tries to find her by touch and instinct among the crowd of
happy spirits who pass him by. At last she approaches, and he clasps her
in his arms, while a chorus of perfect beauty bids him farewell as he
leads her in triumph to the world above.
The third act shows the two wandering in a cavern on their way to
the light of day. Eurydice is grieved that her husband should never look
into her eyes, and her faith is growing cold. After a scene in which
passionate beauty goes side by side with strange relapses. into
conventionality, Orpheus gives way to her prayers and reproaches, and .turns
to embrace her. In a moment she sinks back lifeless, and he pours forth
his despair’ in the immortal strains of “Che faro senza Euridice.” Eros
then appears, and tells him that the gods have had: pity upon his sorrow.
He transports him to the Temple of Love, where Eurydice, restored to
life, is awaiting him, and the opera ends with conventional rejoicings.
Beautiful as Orfeo is—and the best proof of its enduring beauty is
that, after nearly a hundred and fifty years of change and development,
it has lost none of its power to charm—we must not be blind to the fact
that it is a strange combination of strength and weakness. Strictly
speaking, Gluck was by no means a rate
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musician, and in 1762 he had not mastered his new gospel of sincerity
and truth so fully as to disguise the poverty of his technical equipment.
Much of the orchestral part of the work is weak and thin. Berlioz even
went so far as to describe the overture as une niaiserie incroyable,
and the vocal part sometimes shows the influene of the empty
formulas from which Gluck was trying to escape. Throughout the opera
there are unmistakable traces of iRameau’s influence; indeed it is plain
that Gluck frankly took Rameau’s Castor et Pollux as his model
when he sat down to compose Orfeo. The plot of the earlier work,
the rescue of Pollux by Castor from the infernal regions, has of course
much in common with that of Orfeo, and it is obvious that Gluck
took many hints from Rameau’s musical treatment of the various scenes
which the two works have in common.
In spite, however, of occasional weaknesses, Orfeo is a work
of consummate loveliness. Compared to the tortured complexity of our
modern operas, it stands in its dignified simplicity like the Parthenon
beside the bewildering beauty of a Gothic cathedral; and its truth and
grandeur are perhaps the more conspicuous because allied to one of those
classic stories which even in Gluck’s time had become almost synonymous
with emptiness and formality.
Opera in three acts by
Gluck. Libretto by Calzabigi.
Characters: Admetos, King of Pheræ; Alcestis,
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wife of Admetos; Evandor, High Priest of Apollo; Hercules; Apollo;
Thanatos, the god of death.
Place, at Pheræ and vicinity. First produced in 1767 at Vienna.
Five years elapsed between the production of Orfeo and of
Gluck’s next great opera, Alceste; but that these years were not
wasted is proved by the great advance which is perceptible in the score
of the later work. The libretto of Alcesle is in many ways
superior to that of Orfeo, and Gluck’s share of the work shows an
incontestable improvement upon anything he had yet done. His touch is
firmer, and he rarely shows that inclination to drop back into the old
conventional style, which occasionally mars the beauty of Orfeo.
Gluck wrote a preface to the published score of Alceste, which is
one of the most interesting documents in the history of music. It proves
conclusively—not that any proof is necessary—that the composer had
thought long and seriously about the scope of his art, and that the
reforms which he introduced were a deliberate attempt to reconstruct
opera upon a new basis of ideal beauty. If he sometimes failed to act up
to his own theories, it must be remembered in what school he had been
trained, and how difficult must have been the attempt to cast off in a
moment the style which had been habitual to him for so many years.
When Alceste was produced in Paris in 1776, Gluck made some
alterations in the score, some of which were scarcely improvements. In
his later years he became so completely identified with the French
school that the later version is now the more familiar.
The opera opens before the palace at Pheræ, where
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the people are gathered to pray Heaven to spare the life of Admetus, who
lies at the point of death. Alcestis appears, and, after an air of great
dignity and beauty, bids the people follow her to the temple, there to
renew their supplications. The next scene shows the temple of Apollo.
The high priest and the people make passionate appeal to the god for the
life of their king, and the oracle replies that Admetus must perish, if
no other will die in his place. The people, seized with terror, fly from
the place, and Alcestis, left alone, determines to give up her own life
for that of her husband. The high priest accepts her devotion, and in
the famous air “Divinités du Styx” she offers herself a willing
sacrifice to the gods below. In the original version the second act
opened with a scene in a gloomy forest, in which Alcestis interviews the
spirits of Death, and, after renewing her vow, obtains leave to return
and bid farewell to her husband. The music of this scene is exceedingly
impressive, and intrinsically it must have been one of the finest in the
opera, hut it does not advance the action in the least, and its omission
sensibly increases the tragic effect of the drama.
In the later version the act begins with the rejoicings of the
people at the recovery of Admetus. Alcestis appears, and after vainly
endeavoring to conceal her anguish from the eyes of Admetus, is forced
to admit that she is the victim whose death is to restore him to life.
Admetus passionately refuses the sacrifice, and declares that he will
rather die with her than allow her to immolate herself on his account.
He rushes wildly into the palace, and Alcestis bids farewell to life in
an air of extraordinary pathos and beauty.
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The third act opens with the
lamentations of the people for their departed queen. Hercules, released
for a moment from his labors, enters and asks for Admetus. lie is
horrified at the news of the calamity which has befallen his friend, and
announces his resolve of rescuing Alcestis from the clutches of Death.
Meanwhile Alcestis has reached the portals of the underworld, and is
about to surrender herself to the powers of Hell. Admetus, who has not
yet given up hope of persuading her to relinquish her purpose, appears,
and pleads passionately with her to leave him to his doom. His prayers
are vain, and Alcestis is tearing herself for the last time from his
arms, when Hercules rushes in. After a short struggle he defeats the
powers of Death and restores Alcestis to her husband.
The character of Hercules did not appear in the earlier version of
the opera, and in fact was not introduced until after Gluck had left
Paris, a few days after the production of Alceste. Most of the
music allotted to him is probably not by Gluck at all, but seems to have
been written by Gossec, who was at that time one of the rising musicians
in Paris. The close of the opera is certainly inferior to the earlier
parts, but the introduction of Hercules is a great improvement upon the
original version of the last act, in which the rescue of Alcestis is
effected by Apollo. The French librettist did not treat the episode
cleverly, and indeed all the last scene is terribly prosaic, and lacking
in poetical atmosphere.
To see how the appearance of the lusty hero in the halls of woe can
heighten the tragic interest by the sheer force of contrast, we must
turn to the Alcestis of
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Euripides, where the death of Alcestis and the strange conflict of
Hercules with Death are treated with just that touch of mystery and
unearthliness which is absent from the libretto which Gluck was called
upon to set.
Of the music of Alceste, its passion and intensity, it is
impossible to speak too highly. It has pages of mirac ulous power, in
which the deepest tragedy and the most poignant pathos are depicted with
unfaltering certainty. It is strange to think by what simple means Gluck
scaled the loftiest heights. Compared with our modern orchestra, the
poverty of the resources upon which he depended seems almost ludicrous.
Even in the vocal part of Alceste he was so careful to avoid
anything like the sensuous beauty of the Italian style, that sometimes
he fell into the opposite extreme and wrote merely arid rhetoric. Yet he
held so consistently before him his ideal of dramatic truth, that his
music has survived all changes of taste and fashion, and still delights
connoisseurs as fully as on the day it was produced.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Paride ed Elena, Gluck’s next great work, shows his genius under a more lyrical aspect. Here he gives freer reign to the romanticism which he had designedly checked in Alceste, and much of the music seems in a measure to anticipate the new influences which Mozart was afterwards to infuse into German music. Unfortunately the libretto of Paride ed Elena, though possessing great poetical merit, is monotonous and deficient {30} in incident, so that the opera has never won the success which it deserves, and is now almost completely forgotten.
Opera in three acts by
Gluck. Libretto by Du Rollet.
Characters: Agamemnon; Clytemnestra, his wife; Iphigenia, their
daughter; Achilles; Patroclos; Calchas, high priest; Arkas, captain of
the guard of Agamemnon; Artemis (Diana).
Place, Aulis.
First produced at Paris in 1774.
The admiration for the French school of opera which had been
aroused in Gluck by hearing the works of Rameau was not by any means a
passing fancy. His music proves that the French school had more
influence upon his development than the Italian, so it was only natural
that he should wish to have an opportunity of introducing his works to
Paris. That opportunity came in 1774, when, after weary months of
intrigue and disappointment, his Iphigénie en Aulide was produced
at the Académie Royale de Musique. After that time Gluck wrote all his
greatest works for the French stage, and became so completely identified
with the country of his adoption, that nowadays we are far more apt to
think of him as a French than as a German composer. Iphigénie en
Autide is founded upon Racine’s play, which in its turn had been
derived from the tragedy of Euripides.
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The scene of the opera is laid at
Aulis, where the Greek fleet is prevented by contrary winds from
starting for Troy. Diana, who has been unwittingly insulted by
Agamemnon, demands a human sacrifice, and Iphigenia, the guiltless
daughter of Agamemnon, has been named by the high priest, Caichas, as
the victim. Iphigenia and her mother, Clytemnestra, are on their way to
join the fleet at Aulis, and Agamemnon has sent a despairing message to
bid them return home, hoping thus to avoid the necessity of sacrificing
his child. Meanwhile the Greek hosts, impatient of delay, clamor for the
victim, and are only appeased by the assurance of Calchas that the
sacrifice shall take place that very day. Left alone with Agamemnon,
Calehas entreats him to submit to the will of the gods. Agamemnon, torn
by conflicting emotions, at first refuses, but afterwards, relying upon
the message which he has sent to his wife and daughter, promises that if
Iphigenia sets foot in Aulis he will give her up to death. He has hardly
spoken the words when shouts of joy announce the arrival of Clytemnestra
and Iphigenia. The message has miscarried, and they are already in the
camp. As a last resource, Agamemnon now tells Clytemnestra that Achilles,
the lover of her daughter, is false, hoping that this will drive her
from the camp. Clytemnestra calls upon Iphigenia to thrust her betrayer
from her bosom, and Iphigenia replies so heroically that it seems as
though Agamemnon’s plot to save his daughter’s life might actually
succeed. Unfortunately, Achilles himself appears, and, after a scene of
reproach and recrimination, succeeds in dispelling Iphigenia’s doubts
and winning her to complete reconciliation.
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The second act begins with the
rejoicings over the marriage of Iphigenia. The general joy is turned to
lamentation by the discovery of Agamemnon’s vow and the impending doom
of Iphigenia. Clytemnestra passionately entreats Achilles to save her
daughter, which he promises to do, though Iphigenia professes herself
ready to obey her father. In the following scene Achilles meets
Agamemnon, and, after a long altercation, swears to defend Iphigenia
with the last drop of his blood. He rushes off, and Agamemnon is left in
anguish to weigh his love for his daughter against his dread of the
angry gods. Love triumphs and he sends Arkas, his attendant, to bid
Clytemnestra fly with Iphigenia home to Mycenæ.
In the third act the Greeks are angrily demanding their victim.
Achilles prays Iphigenia to fly with him, but she is constant to her
idea of duty, and bids him a pathetic farewell. Achilles, however, is
not to be persuaded, and in an access of noble rage swears to slay the
priest upon the steps of the altar rather than submit to the sacrifice
of his love. After another farewell scene with her mother Iphigenia is
led off, while Clytemnestra, seeing in imagination her daughter under
the knife of the priest, bursts forth into passionate blasphemy.
Achilles and his Thessalian followers rush in to save Iphigenia, and for
a time the contest rages fiercely, but eighteenth-century convention
steps in Calchas stops the combat, saying that the gods are at length
appeased; Iphigenia is restored to Achilles, and the opera ends with
general rejoicings.
Iphigénie en Aulide
gave Gluck a finer opportunity than he had yet had. The
canvas is broader than in
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Alceste or Orfeo, and the emotions are more varied. The
human interest, too, is more evenly sustained, and the supernatural
element, which played so important a part in the two earlier works, is
almost entirely absent. Nevertheless, fine as much of the music is, the
restraint which Gluck exercised over himself is too plainly perceptible,
and the result is that many of the scenes are stiff and frigid. There is
scarcely a trace of the delightful lyricism which rushes through
Paride ed Elena like a flood of resistless delight. Gluck had set
his ideal of perfect declamatory truth firmly before him, and he
resisted every temptation to swerve into the paths of mere musical
beauty. He had not yet learnt how to combine the two styles. He had not
yet grasped the fact that in the noblest music truth and beauty are one
and the same thing.
Opera in five acts by
Gluek. Libretto founded upon Tasso’s “Jerusalem Saved,” by Quinault.
Characters: Armide; Phenice and Sidonie, her confidants; Hidroat,
King of Damascus; Aront, his commander-in-chief; Rinaldo, commander of
the army of Godfrey of Bouillon; Artemidor, a knight; Ubaldo, a Danish
knight; The Fury of Hate; Demon as Lucinda; Demon as Melissa; a Naiad.
First produced at Paris in 1777.
In Armide, produced in 1777, Gluck made another step forward.
The libretto was the same as that used by Lulli nearly a hundred years
before. The legend, already immortalized by Tasso, was strangely
different
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from the classical stories which had hitherto inspired his greatest
works. The opening scene strikes the note of romanticism which echoes
through the whole opera. Armida, a princess deeply versed in magic arts,
laments that one knight, and one only, in the army of the Crusaders, has
proved blind to her charms. All the rest’ are at her feet, but Rinaldo
alone is obdurate. She has had a boding dream, moreover, in which
Rinaldo has vanquished her, and all the consolations of her maidens
cannot restore her peace of mind. ilidroat, her uncle, entreats her to
choose a husband, but she declares that she will bestow her hand upon no
one but the conqueror of Rinaldo. While the chorus is celebrating her
charms, Arontes, a Paynim warrior, enters bleeding and wounded, and
tells how the prowess of a single knight has robbed him of his captives.
Armida at once recognizes the hand of the recalcitrant Rinaldo, and the
act ends with her vows of vengeance against the invincible hero.
The second act shows Pinaldo in quest of adventures which may win
him the favor of Godfrey of Bouillon, whose wrath he has incurred.
Armida’s enchantments lead him to her magic gardens, where, amidst
scenes of voluptuous beauty, he yields to the fascinations of the place,
lays downs his arms, and sinks into sleep. Armida rushes in, dagger in
hand, but the sight of the sleeping hero is too potent for her, and,
overcome by passion, she bids the spirits of the air transport them
to the bounds of the universe. In the third act we find that
Rinaldo has rejected the love of the enchantress. Armida is
inconsolable; she is ashamed of her weakness, and will not listen to the
well-meaning consolations
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of her attendants. She calls upon the spirit of Hate, but when he
appears she rejects his aid, and still clings desperately to her fatal
passion. The fourth act, which is entirely superfluous, is devoted to
the adventures in the enchanted garden of Ubaldo, and a Danish knight,
two Crusaders, who have set forth with the intention of rescuing Rinaldo
from the clutches of the sorceress. The fifth act takes place in Armid
a’s palace. Rinaldo’s proud spirit has at length been subdued, and he is
completely the slave of the enchantress. The duet between the lovers is
of the most bewitching loveliness, and much of it curiously anticipates
the romantic element which was to burst forth in a future generation.
Armida tears herself from Rinaldo’s arms, and leaves him to be
entertained by a ballet of spirits, while she transacts some business
with the powers below. Ubaldo and the Danish knight now burst in, and
soon bring Rinaldo to a proper frame of mind, lie takes a polite
farewell of Armida, who in vain attempts to prevent his going, and is
walked off by his two Mentors. Left alone, Armida calls on her demons to
destroy the palace, and the opera ends in wild confusion and tumult.
To say that Armide recalls the romantic grace of Paride
ed Elena is but half the truth. The lyrical grace of the earlier
work is, as it were, concentrated and condensed in a series of pictures,
which for voluptuous beauty surpass anything that had been written
before Gluck’s day. Against the background formed by the magical
splendor of the enchanted garden, the figure of Armida stands out in
striking relief. The mingled pride and passion of the imperious princess
are drawn with wonderful art. Even while her passion brings her
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to the feet of her conqueror, her haughty spirit rebels against her
fate. Such weaknesses as the opera contains are principally attributable
to the libretto, which is ill-constructed, and cold and formal in
diction. Rinaldo is rather a colorless person, and the other characters
are for the most part merely lay-figures, though the grim figure of Hate
is drawn with extraordinary power. But upon Armida the composer
concentrated the full, lens of his genius, and for her he wrote music
which satisfies every requirement of dramatic truth, without losing
touch of the lyrical beauty and persuasive passion which breathes life
into soulless clay.
Opera in four acts by
Gluck. Libretto from the French of Guichard by Sander.
Characters: Iphigenia, high priesess of Diana; Orestes; Pylades;
Thoas, King of Scythia; Diana; first and second priestess; a Scythian; a
servant of the temple.
Place, Tauris.
First produced in Paris in 1779.
In Iphigénie en Tauride, the last of his great works, which
was produced in 1778, Gluck reached his highest point. Here he seems for
the first time thoroughly to fuse and combine the two elements which are
forever at war in his earlier operas, musical beauty and dramatic truth.
Throughout the score of Iphigénie en Tauride the declamation is
as vivid and true as in Alceste, while the intrinsic loveliness
of the music yields not a jot to the passion-charged strains of
Armide.
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The overture paints the gradual
wakening of a tempest, and when the storm is at its height the curtain
rises upon the temple of Diana at Tauris, where Iphigenia, snatched by
the goddess from the knife of the executioner at Aulis, has been placed
as high priestess. The priestesses in chorus beseech the gods to be
propitious, and when the fury of the storm is allayed, Iphigenia
recounts her dream of Agamenmon’s death, and laments the woes of her
house. She calls upon Diana to put an end to her life, which already has
lasted too long. Thoas, the king of the country, now enters, alarmed by
the outcries of the priestesses, he is a prey to superstitious fears,
and willingly listens to the advice of his followers, that the gods can
only be appeased by human blood. A message is now brought that two young
strangers have been cast upon the rock-bound coast, and Thoas at once
decides that they shall be the victims. Orestes and Pylades are now
brought in. They refuse to make themselves known, and are bidden to
prepare for death, while the act closes with the savage delight of the
Scythians.
The second act is in the prison. Orestes bewails his destiny, and
refuses the consolation which Pylades offers in a noble and famous song.
Pylades is torn from his friend’s arm by the officers of the guard, and
Orestes, left to himself, after a paroxysm of madness, sinks to sleep
upon the prison floor. His eyes are closed, but his brain is a prey to
frightful visions. The Furies surround him with horrible cries and
menaces, singing a chorus of indescribable weirdness. Lastly, the shade
of the murdered Clytemnestra passes before him, and he awakes with a
shriek to find his cell empty
{38}
save for the mournful form of Iphigenia, who has come to question the
stranger as to his origin and the purpose of his visit to Tauris. In
broken accents he tells her—what is new to her ears—the tale of the
murder of Agamemnon, and the vengeance taken upon Clytemnestra by
himself; adding, in order to conceal his own identity, that Orestes is
also dead, and that Electra is the sole remnant of the house of Atreus.
Iphigenia bursts into a passionate lament, and the act ends with her
offering a solemn libation to the shade of her brother.
In the third act Iphigenia resolves to free one of the victims, and
to send him with a message to Electra. A sentiment which she cannot
explain bids her choose Orestes, but the latter refuses to save his life
at the expense of that of his friend. A contention arises between the
two, which is only decided by Orestes swearing to take his own life if
Pylades is sacrificed. The precious scroll is thereupon entrusted to
Pylades, who departs, vowing to return and save his friend.
In the fourth act Iphigenia is a prey to conflicting emotions. A
mysterious sympathy forbids her to slay the prisoner, yet she tries to
steel her heart for the performance of her terrible task, and calls upon
Diana to aid her. Orestes is brought on by the priestesses, and while
urging Iphigenia to deal the blow, blesses her for the pity which stays
her hand. Just as the knife is about to descend, the dying words of
Orestes, “Was it thus thou didst perish in Aulis, Iphigenia, my sister?”
bring about the inevitable recognition, and the brother and sister rush
into each other’s arms. But Thoas has yet to be reckoned with. He is
furious at
{39}
the interruption of the sacrifice, and is about to execute summary
vengeance upon both Iphigenia and Orestes, when Pylades returns with an
army of Greek youths—whence he obtained them is not explained—and
despatches the tyrant in the nick of time. The opera ends with the
appearance of Pallas Athene, the patroness of Argos, who bids Orestes
and his sister return to Greece, carrying with them the image of Diana,
too long disgraced by the barbarous rites of the Scythians.
Echo et Narcisse,
an opera cast in a somewhat lighter mould, which was
produced in 1779, seems to have failed to please, and Iphigénie en
Tauride may be safely taken as the climax of Gluck’s career. It is
the happiest example of his peculiar power, and shows more convincingly
than any of its predecessors where the secret of his greatness really
lay. He was the first composer who treated an opera as an integral whole.
He was inferior to many of his predecessors, notably to Handel, in
musical science, and even in power of characterization. But while their
works were often hardly more than strings of detached scenes from which
the airs might often be dissociated without much loss of effect, his
operas were constructed upon a principle of dramatic unity which forbade
one link to be taken from the chain without injuring the continuity of
the whole.
In purely technical matters, too, his reforms were far reaching and
important. He was first to make the overture in some sort a reflection
of the drama which it preceded, and he used orchestral effects as a
means of expressing the passion of his characters in a way that had not
been dreamed of before. He dismissed the harpsichord from the orchestra,
and strengthened his
{40}
band with clarinets, an instrument unknown to Handel. His banishment of
recitativo secco, and his restoration of the chorus to its proper
place in the drama were innovations of vast importance to the history of
opera, but the chief strength of the influence which he exerted upon
subsequent music lay in his power of suffusing each of his operas in an
atmosphere special to itself.
Last updated January 17, 2007