‘Messiah: the Composition and Afterlife of Handel’s Masterpiece’ by Jonathan Keates

Attending an annual performance of Handel’s oratorio Messiah has been part of my life since childhood, and I have tried to pass this tradition on to my own children and grandchildren whenever and wherever possible.

Over the centuries since its first performance in Ireland in 1741 many legends and myths have developed around the oratorio, and this small book (only 150 pages) seeks to put the record straight about how, when and why Handel wrote it, and what happened to it after his death.

George Frederic Handel was born in Halle, Saxony in 1685, studied composition with various teachers, and also briefly attended Halle University as a law student. In 1703 he moved to Hamburg, where he joined the opera house orchestra as a violinist and keyboard player. It was there in 1705 that his first opera, Almira, was performed. In 1706 he travelled to Italy, visiting Venice and Florence before reaching Rome. He composed his first oratorio, Il trionfo del tempo e del disinganno there in 1707, and in the next two years composed and performed in various cities in Italy.

In 1709 he returned to Germany and was appointed Kappelmeister to Georg Ludwig, Elector of Hanover, who was crowned King of England in 1714. Handel followed him to London that year, providing music for various royal events and serving as music teacher to the king’s children. Handel composed and performed operas and oratorios based on dramatic events or characters described in the Bible. The texts for these were generally provided by his friend and collaborator, Charles Jennens, and were performed in London and throughout England to general acclaim. 
                                                                                                                                                     
Jennens, who compiled the biblical verses which comprise the text of Messiah, was a devout Christian, and an active member of the Anglican church. In fact, it was Jennens who devised the original concept of Messiah, and sent his outline for it to Handel. Messiah was distinguished from previous oratorios by being devoid of a dramatic narrative line. It is divided into three parts, the first one portraying biblical prophecies regarding the coming of a future redeemer, the second the events around the birth and death of Jesus, and the third the message of redemption that is the essence of Christianity.

Parts of the book are fairly technical with regard to the scoring and performances of the oratorio, but on the whole the author provides a clear and erudite account of his subject, which is clearly one for which he feels great affection. The book concludes with Jennens’s outline of the content of Messiah, a bibliography, and a timeline giving the main dates and events in Handel’s life.

However inspired the texts selected by Jennens might be, the music written for them by Handel is something that is sublimely uplifting, taking the listener to spiritual heights that transcend any and every denomination or religion. This would seem in part to account for the widespread and enduring popularity that Messiah has enjoyed for hundreds of years. However, its popularity did not come immediately after its first performance in Dublin. It was only a decade later, when it was performed in London to benefit the recently established orphanage in Bloomsbury known as the Foundling Hospital, that it gained wide recognition. In the course of that decade Handel made adjustments to the music and the orchestral scoring to better suit the instruments and soloists at his disposal for its performance in various venues, as was customary at that time.

Thus, the original score of Messiah was destined for a much smaller orchestra and choir than is generally used in contemporary performances unless an attempt is made to reconstruct the more intimate ensemble used in Handel’s day. Nowadays performances tend to stress the stately and almost overpowering nature of the music, especially in the choral sections, rather than cherishing its more intimate, sincere and transcendent aspects.

Be that as it may, a performance of Messiah gives the listener an opportunity to commune with humanity’s better aspects, to transcend everyday life and ascend to the spiritual heights that only great art and inspired artists can provide.

 

So Near and Yet So Far

 

“You are invited to watch the ceremony to mark the graduation of the soldiers who have completed the Officers’ Training Course.” That was the text of the official invitation emailed to me and other family members by one of our granddaughters, whose sister was one of the soldiers concerned. We were informed that we would be able to watch the ceremony live, as filmed by the IDF’s official photographer, on the official IDF site on the internet.

 I’ve attended such occasions in person in the past, both for my own children and for some of my grandchildren, and usually these are very dignified and moving events, filling the assembled relatives with pride and joy, and maybe even a tiny bit of trepidation. The IDF does its best to make the soldiers’ relatives – including parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and even cousins – welcome in the base where these courses are held somewhere in Israel.

 But this was a totally new experience for me (and I expect for many others involved). First, of all, it involved making sure we were sitting in front of our computers on the appointed day at the requisite time, and that we had the link that gave access to the live telecast. Once the inevitable initial technical difficulties had been overcome, we settled down to watch.

 I’ll admit, it was a shock to see all our lovely young soldiers standing on the parade ground in serried ranks – all wearing face masks. My heart bled for the poor youngsters standing in the heat, all maintaining appropriate distance from one another, and all with their mouths and noses covered. I tend to get teary at the best of times on such occasions, but this time my tears flowed freely as I sat there in my comfortable study watching the ceremony proceed in the customary fashion, but with such a great difference (my eyes are damp even now as I write this).

 The IDF’s Attorney in Chief, Colonel Inbal de-Paz, who was accompanied by the commander of the base, reviewed the graduating class and gave an impressive speech equating the contribution made by the IDF to helping the general population during the current Coronavirus crisis to its contribution some seventy years earlier. Then, at the urging of Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion, the IDF rallied to help the new immigrants whose accommodation was not suited to the inclement winter weather. I was especially touched to hear him congratulate the relatives of the soldiers watching from their homes as well as the soldiers on the parade ground.

 Officers’ insignia were awarded first to the outstanding cadets and then to all the soldiers. The IDF military band played stirring music, and the ceremony came to an end.

 This, too, was unlike the conclusion of any previous ceremony I have seen. No hats were thrown up in the air. No rousing cheers were heard. As admonished by their commander, there were no mutual congratulatory hugs and kisses among the young people or from excited relatives. I felt sad to see this thrilling moment damped down in such a low-key fashion, but I’m sure that all those involved were happy that their achievement had been acknowledged.

 And my husband and I went and had a celebratory drink to our granddaughter’s health.

‘The Second Worst Restaurant in France’ by Alexander McCall Smith

 

An easy read for a change, and this book provides a light-hearted view of life in France, focusing primarily on culinary issues. Paul, a writer specializing in subjects connected with food, is trying to write a book about ‘The Philosophy of Food,’ but his concentration is disturbed by the two Siamese cats belonging to his girlfriend, who is also his editor.

As everyone knows, cats do what they want, when and where they want and how they want, and so Paul finds it impossible to work. On one of her occasional visits to Edinburgh, where Paul lives, his ‘Remarkable Cousin Chloe’ offers him the use of her vacant flat somewhere else in the city, but that turns out to have noisy student neighbours. Finally, Chloe invites Paul to stay in the house she has rented in France for the summer.

So Paul goes to France, but the quiet village in which the house is situated turns out to be inhabited by a host of odd but likeable characters, such as Claude, the inept chef-manager of the local restaurant, his devoted nephew Hugo, the twin middle-aged ladies who own the house Chloe is renting, the dour baker, and Audette, the hapless pregnant young woman, whom the twins take under their wing.

And above all, there is his eccentric cousin, Chloe, who may or may not have had five husbands and who seems to be able to overcome every crisis by dint of her unfailing kindness and generosity. A woman of means, she extends a helping hand in the restaurant when it seems to be on the verge of going under, and even recruits Paul to tutor first Claude and then Hugo in the preparation of meals so that they are cooked in accordance with traditional French cuisine, avoiding the pitfalls that caused him to have food-poisoning when he first ate there.

Cousin Chloe comes and goes, Audette has her baby and is threatened by Bleu, the putative father of the baby (who is called Aramis but at one point – evidently due to an editing or proofreading failure – is suddenly called Artemis), and the caravan in which Bleu and his lady companion are staying is mysteriously blown up (without anyone being injured).

Paul decides to abandon the ‘Philosophy of Food’ project, focusing instead, with the encouragement of his girlfriend-cum-editor back in Edinburgh, on a putative TV programme plus accompanying book about the restaurant, which could previously have qualified as ‘the second worst restaurant in France,’ but is now well on its way to becoming one of the best (hopefully).

The book abounds in descriptions of French village life, with visits to local markets, sipping coffee in cafés, and general approvation of the beauty and laid-back way of life of rural France. It is, in effect a paeon of praise for life in France, and ends with a sentence consisting of just one word: ‘France,’

Between Hunkering Down and Resurgence

After the initial influx in February of the Coronavirusl, followed by the massive and rapid lockdown and attendant social and economic damage, in early June matters were gradually being restored to some semblance of normality here in Israel. Small groups were allowed to meet, some schools were able to function partially in what was known as ‘capsules’ and there was a general relaxation of the lockdown restrictions.

After receiving financial compensation for their losses, whether in full or partially, businesses and even restaurants, cafés and bars were able to open provided certain restrictions were met. The unemployment rate fell, synagogues were reopened, people returned to the open spaces and beaches, and finally schools were allowed to function fully.

Those involved in the performing arts – actors, musicians, stand-up artists, etc. – were indignant at being left out of the general return to normality. Protests and demonstrations were held, and eventually the government gave in and performances were permitted provided the audience did not exceed 250 people, or fifty percent of the auditorium’s capacity. This was met with scorn, as no theatre could be economically viable at that level, but eventually it was accepted, and plans went ahead to hold as many performances as possible in the open air (where the risk of infection is presumed to be lower). Buses and eventually also trains were allowed to function, albeit to a limited extent. And at last, promises were made to ‘reopen the skies’ and allow Israelis desperate for holidays abroad to depart for specified countries (Cyprus, Greece, Iceland), where infection rates were considered to be sufficiently low.

At first there were some rays of light here and there amidst all the doom and gloom. A large advertisement taken out in one of the national daily newspapers expressed the gratitude of ‘the theatres, the orchestras, the dance, the museums, the opera, the cinematheques, and the other cultural and artistic institutions, as well as of the thousands of artists, actors and workers who are returning to work’ to the support and cooperation extended by the Minister of Culture and Sport, the Minister of Finance, the Minister of Health, and their staffs and the various institutions of culture. Gratitude was also expressed to several philanthropic institutions. That certainly warmed the cockles of any culture vulture’s heart, but what it actually meant in practice never came to fruition.

The euphoria lasted exactly two weeks. As June progressed the general rejoicing and premature self-congratulation on the part of the government came to an abrupt stop. The dreaded second wave had arrived.

The curve which had been flattened reared its ugly head again, and alarm bells started ringing as the number of infections rose drastically. The idea of returning to the theatre and the concert hall vanished like the proverbial mirage. Admittedly, orchestras and theatres have been putting on performances of one kind or another via the medium of Zoom, but that is not going to put much money in their coffers or provide audiences with the thrill of seeing and hearing performances by living, breathing human beings.

For a while the government dithered between re-imposing a full or partial lockdown or letting matters sort themselves out somehow. Not even our all-knowing and all-powerful Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, seemed to know what line take, swinging between threatening a return to full lockdown, trying to cajole people into following the guidelines and advocating stricter policing of public behavior. Suddenly his regular evening TV appearances to say how well we were doing came to an abrupt stop. No more nightly Bibi on our screens. Various ministers are given the task of haranguing the public. Only when there is something positive to say does the Prime Minister put in an appearance. And for the moment there is no such thing.

The Israel Philharmonic Orchestra gave a gala performance gratis via Zoom which was introduced by Dame Helen Mirren. But there doesn’t seem to be any possibility of a live performance by the Phil. taking place any time soon. Especially considering that the average age of its audience is well over seventy-.

The idea of life ever returning to anything like normality seems to be more like a will-o-the-wisp that is constantly disappearing over the next hill.

‘Le livre de ma mere (My Mother’s Book)’ by Albert Cohen

 

Albert Cohen wrote (or at least published) this book when he was about sixty years old. I don’t know when his mother died, but – as its title implies – the book is about his late mother and her devotion to him, embellished by his evidently deep-rooted sense of guilt at not having been as kind to her as he felt should have been in her lifetime.

Near the beginning the book we read about the burial of the author’s mother, with a graphic description of the scene at the cemetery, focusing primarily on the coffin and the hole in the ground into which it is lowered.

Chapter by chapter the author gradually unveils his mother’s character, appearance and habits. He describes the way his mother would prepare the house and herself for the Sabbath, wait to greet her husband and son as they returned from synagogue on Friday night and focus her whole being on seeing to the welfare of the two men who comprised her entire universe. The family lived in Marseille, where his father was a not-very-successful businessman and his mother tended to be isolated from the society of other people, largely because of her own feelings of inadequacy.

Scenes from the author’s childhood describe the utter devotion with which his mother attended to him, cared for him, depended on his happiness, and altogether appeared to be totally absorbed in making him the centre of her world.

A large part of the book recounts over and over again that the author was living in Geneva, first as a student and then as a member of the diplomatic corps, and from time to time (approximately once a year) his mother would come to stay with him for a few weeks. He describes in exquisite detail the image of his mother descending from the train, a somewhat pathetic and dishevelled figure, her clothes crumpled and her hat slightly askew, and how her eyes would light up when she espied him waiting for her on the platform. He describes her embarrassed little laugh when he pointed out some grammatical mistake she had made, and her complete desolation when he chided her for phoning one of his lady friends at four in the morning to ascertain that no harm had befallen him. He chides himself repeatedly for his behaviour towards her.

The reader is given several detailed accounts of those and other scenes, which evidently continued to haunt the writer. He describes the battered suitcase from which his mother would extract the various treats she had prepared for him in Marseille, many of which had been beloved by him in his childhood, and how she delighted in his joy upon receiving what she had brought him.

Above all, however, the author reiterates his guilt at not having shown sufficient appreciation for his mother’s love and devotion to him, and the indifference he had occasionally displayed towards her, to the extent that on one occasion he had even been three hours late for a meeting with her somewhere in Geneva. It is with painful honesty that he describes his youthful preoccupation with a certain young lady that caused him to keep his mother waiting for him for hours.

Towards the end of the book the author’s grief (or guilt) becomes virtually unbearable, and at the end of every sentence describing his mother we find the refrain ‘She is dead.’ The sense of overpowering anguish seems to transcend everything, extinguishing all other emotions. In one of the last few paragraphs the author acknowledges that we are all destined to end the same way, all bound to lie in a dark hole in the ground as our bodies decay and decompose.

As the book comes to an end the author admonishes young people everywhere, rebuking them for not appreciating their mothers enough, for not showing them that they love them, for neglecting to pay them the attention they deserve. Somehow, this becomes a homily, likening all mothers to saints, and even to the mother of Jesus.

I hope that by writing this memoir the author managed to assuage his conscience and allay his guilt. Without going into too much psychological analysis, the association with Oedipus cannot be dismissed out of hand. For me, however, it has been clear for a long time that it is guilt rather than love that makes the world go round. And it would certainly appear to be guilt that impelled Albert Cohen to write this book.