When we look closely at Handel’s seemingly brilliant career, it becomes apparent that he was like a cat with nine lives, able to constantly revive himself after suffering defeats that would have finished off a lesser man. The year 1737 epitomized his extraordinary resilience both physically and creatively as he endured one grave crisis after another. As the year began, Handel was facing the growing indifference of London audiences to Italian opera seria, as both his Covent Garden company and the rival Opera of the Nobility began sinking in a sea of debt. Exhausted by too much work and stress, in April he suddenly collapsed with a mysterious ailment—whether stroke, muscular rheumatism, or an emotional breakdown has never been determined. His right arm and the fingers of his right hand became paralyzed so he could no longer perform at the keyboard, and his cognitive abilities were so affected he was unable to compose. Anxious colleagues and the London newspapers speculated that his career might be over.
But fundamentally robust in health, Handel was not down for the count. In the fall, he traveled to his native Germany and the famous spa at Aachen (Aix-la-Chapelle). Six weeks of bathing in the medicinal waters brought a miraculous cure for body and mind, and before he completed his treatment, Handel was back enthusiastically playing the organ at the local nunnery’s chapel. He returned to London in late October eager to embark on a new contract with Johann Heidegger, manager of the King’s Theatre in Haymarket, to write two operas for the 1738 season, without having the additional pressure of overseeing the company.
Then, less than a month later on November 20, Queen Caroline—George II’s consort and Handel’s stalwart patron and friend—died. English theaters were closed for a month of mourning. Asked by the king to write the principal musical work for the funeral at Westminster Abbey, Handel responded with the magnificent 45-minute-long elegy The Ways of Zion Do Mourn. Considered one of his greatest choral works, it proved his creative powers were back in full force.
Meanwhile, Handel was at work on his two operas for Heidegger. The first was a traditional opera seria, Farnace, which opened in early January 1738 and is rarely revived today. The next opera, however, was something quite unexpected: Serse, a semi-historical story about King Xerxes I (519–465 BCE) of Persia that mingled comedy and serious drama in a manner unknown to early–18th-century opera, but very much in the freer style of 17th-century Venetian operas by Francesco Cavalli and Claudio Monteverdi. The title character, Serse (Xerxes), with his ever-changing whims and rages, provided a plum role rich in vocal display for Handel’s latest castrato discovery, Cafarelli (Gaetano Majorano), who possessed a mezzo-soprano voice of exceptional range and flexibility.
Serse premiered on April 15 at the King’s Theatre and ran for only five performances. With its satirical edge and buffo scenes jostling against tragic arias, it was beyond the comprehension of its first audiences. Years later, critic Charles Burney summed up their distaste: “I have not been able to discover the author of the words of this drama, but it is one of the worst Handel ever set to Music: for besides feeble writing, there is a mixture of tragic-comedy and buffoonery in it, which … [had been] banished from serious opera.” Swallowing his defeat, the irrepressible Handel moved on immediately to compose one of his finest oratorios: Saul.
Not revived until 1924 at Göttingen’s Handel opera festival, Serse over the course of the 20th century was transformed from failure to success and today is probably Handel’s most-performed opera after Giulio Cesare. Comments David Vickers: “It is precisely the qualities of farce intermingled with tragedy, and the affectionate musical portraits of clashing characters’ personalities, foibles, predicaments, and reactions that helped Serse to become admired and popular eventually in the modern era.” Also a plus for current listeners is Handel’s reduced use of lengthy da capo arias, which here are saved for key moments of emotional outpouring and otherwise replaced by brief arias that suit the plot’s swifter pace and more playful mood. Almost a parody of opera seria, Serse charms us by not taking itself very seriously at all. In Paul Henry Lang’s words: “Serse’s comedy is more subtle than that of the opera buffa and rests on the incongruity of showing great and solemn historical personalities in their un-solemn and unhistorical moments, notably in the throes of love intrigue, where they do not show to advantage.”
Serse’s libretto mixes a soupçon of history with a high-calorie brew of fiction. The real Xerxes of history was hardly a figure of fun: He embarked on a years-long, ultimately unsuccessful campaign to conquer Greece and was an ambitious and brutal ruler, who was finally assassinated by his courtiers. However, Serse’s libretto—originally written by the Venetian Nicolò Minato in 1654 for Cavalli, then revised in 1694 by Silvio Stampiglia for an opera by Handel’s major rival Giovanni Bononcini, and finally much-shortened by an unknown hand, perhaps Handel himself—turns him into a headstrong lover embroiled in interlocking amorous plots.
Three elements drawn from Greek historian Herodotus’s (ca. 484–425 BCE) account of the Persian/Greek wars are squeezed into the libretto. Xerxes’s most famous achievement was to build a pontoon bridge of boats linking Asia to Europe at the Hellespont (now Dardanelles) that was destroyed by a storm; in the opera, this epic feat is brought down to earth by being described by the clownish servant Elviro, a character straight out of comic Venetian theater. Xerxes indeed had an affair with his brother Arsamene’s wife, but it ended in violence instead of apology. Even Serse’s famous aria, “Ombra mai fù,” was inspired by Herodotus’s story of Xerxes admiring a beautiful plane tree so much that he decorated it with gold and wrote an ode to it.
Act I: In his garden, Serse lounges under a plane tree and praises it for its beauty and refreshing shade (“Ombra mai fù”). He overhears the alluring sounds of Romilda, Arsamene’s fiancée, singing in a nearby summer house. Though Romilda is mocking Serse for being in love with a tree who cannot love him back, he is immediately infatuated with her voice and wants to meet her. Romilda’s fiancé, Arsamene, refuses his brother’s demand that he woo Romilda for him. When the king meets Romilda, she declines his offer of marriage. He banishes Arsamene for objecting.
Now appears Amastre, who is betrothed to Serse; she has disguised herself as one of his soldiers, and he does not recognize her. Serse’s general Ariodate, also the father of Romilda and her younger sister Atalanta, arrives with good news from the battlefield. Serse rewards him by promising that Romilda shall marry a royal husband equal to himself. Overhearing this, Amastre is overcome with rage at Serse’s betrayal.
Arsamene now gives his feckless servant Elviro a letter to deliver to Romilda asking for a rendezvous. In love with Arsamene herself, Atalanta lies to Romilda that Arsamene has found a new lover and advises her to accept the king’s offer. Atalanta resolves to seduce the handsome Arsamene herself.
Act II: In a public square, Amastre laments her unhappy situation. She meets Elviro, who has disguised himself as a female flower seller (gender fluidity and cross-dressing are major elements in Serse) and is singing snatches of vendors’ cries Handel heard on the streets of London. Elviro also meets Atalanta, who comes to buy some flowers. He reveals his identity to her and gives her the letter from Arsamene, which Atalanta promises to deliver to Romilda. After Elviro departs, Serse appears and finds Atalanta reading the letter. He recognizes his brother’s handwriting, but Atalanta tells him the letter was written to her by Arsamene, who loves her and not Romilda.
Serse is delighted by this turn of events. When he confronts Romilda with the letter and Arsamene’s apparent betrayal, she insists she will always love Arsamene, no matter what he has done. Elviro prevents Amastre from killing herself in despair.
On the shores of the Hellespont, a chorus of sailors congratulates Serse on his bridge connecting the two continents, and the king commands Ariodate to begin the advance into Europe. Elviro, looking for his master, notices a storm brewing that threatens to wreck the bridge and repairs to a tavern for a drink.
In “a place of retirement” outside the town, Amastre disguised as a soldier, Serse, and Romilda confront each other. Romilda again spurns Serse’s marriage proposal, and Amastre warns her that Serse is a traitor. She draws her sword against him and is arrested by his guards. After the king’s departure, Romilda frees her.
Act III: The quarreling Romilda and Arsamene demand an explanation from Atalanta, who admits her guilt. A furious Serse, threatening reprisals, repeats his proposal, and Romilda finally succumbs, saying she will marry Serse if he obtains the permission of her father. Arsamene bitterly reproaches her, but she tells him death awaits her.
Serse tells Ariodate that Romilda must accept “a person whom thou wilt own equal to us.” Assuming he means Arsamene, Ariodate happily agrees. Meanwhile, Romilda tells Serse she has been intimate with Arsamene, and the king condemns him to death. Romilda asks the “brave soldier” Amastre to help her, and Amastre gives her a letter for Serse. In a duet, Romilda and Arsamene quarrel over their impossible situation.
They are still quarreling when they arrive at the Temple of the Sun, but are quickly reconciled when Ariodate fulfills Serse’s ambiguous pledge by marrying them. When Serse arrives for his intended wedding to Romilda, he finds he is too late. His frustration erupts in the extravagant aria “Crude furie.” A page brings him Amastre’s letter accusing him of betraying their betrothal. Serse draws his sword and orders Arsamene to kill Romilda with it. Amastre interrupts, offering to “pierce the ungrateful heart which has with treachery repaid true love.” She snatches the sword out of the king’s hand, tilts it at him, and reveals her identity. Ashamed, Serse repents, blesses the marriage of Romilda and Arsamene, and weds the long-suffering Amastre.
Act I: If the convolutions and absurdities of this plot make your eyes glaze over, Handel’s music provides the antidote. The opera begins with his most famous aria, “Ombra mai fù,” Serse’s ode to his plane tree. It has come down to us in bastardized form as “Handel’s Largo,” a ponderous organ piece used at funerals and other solemn occasions. In fact, this short non–da-capo aria is in a quicker larghetto tempo, and its character is that of a nobly flowing love song. And lest we be tempted to sigh over it, Handel immediately punctures the balloon as enchanting music for flutes and strings introduces us to Romilda, singing offstage in the summer house. She is mocking Serse for his foolish adoration of a tree, but her song is so lovely he is not offended. While other eavesdropping characters interrupt with chatter, she continues into a livelier second aria, “Va godendo vezzoso,” and their combined allure causes Serse to fall madly in love, without setting eyes on her. This opening sequence shows how freely Handel will construct his music throughout Serse.
In another brief aria, “Di tacere,” Serse first proclaims his love to Romilda. This unruly piece, driven by swirling violins, offers a vivid illustration of Serse’s extravagant and impulsive personality. Later in the act, his growing passion finds release in the opera’s first extended da capo aria, “Più che penso.” Instrumental flourishes and strutting dotted rhythms reveal him to be a pompous narcissist, totally focused on himself and having his every wish fulfilled. The demands here on the singer’s breath control, mastery of a very wide range, and ability to effortlessly spin coloratura suggest how extraordinary Cafarelli, the role’s creator, must have been.
Act II: When Arsamene’s letter to Romilda has gone astray to her sister Atalanta, Serse believes all obstacles have been removed from his path. But Romilda still remains loyal to Arsamene. This provokes Serse’s brilliant bravura aria “Se bramate,” in which he responds that he should reject her, but does not know how to do so. The furious pace of this aria is constantly interrupted by Serse’s slow, sorrowing admission that he cannot give her up—music that grows more beautiful and anguished as the aria continues.
Following this outburst comes a sequence of three shorter arias for Romilda, Amastre, and Arsamene that follow a trajectory of minor keys, each a half-step lower than the previous one. This is the moment in the opera when the mood swings strongly from comic to tragic as each character realizes how serious their situation now is. The usually light-hearted Romilda faces her inner demons with a dramatic recitativo accompagnato, “L’amerò,” followed by the aria “E’ gelosia,” in which she describes that dreaded emotion with phrases that twist like serpents. This is immediately followed by Amastre, Serse’s frantic betrothed, who begs Elviro to kill her and put her out of her misery (“Anima infide”). Finally, Romilda’s fiancé, Arsamene, voices his feelings about what he believes to be Romilda’s betrayal of their love in “Quella che tutta fè,” in dark F minor. The gentle Arsamene is the polar opposite of his megalomaniacal brother, and Handel gives him the most lyrical music throughout, like this tender but desolate aria in siciliano rhythm.
However, Handel was not a prisoner of the opera seria style, and his versatility is delightfully revealed in the little aria “Del mio caro Bacco” for his comic everyman Elviro. As Serse’s Hellespont bridge faces destruction, Elviro flees to the nearest tavern, where the wines of Bacchus will cure any ill.
Act III: Hounded by Serse’s demands and the betrayal of Atalanta, the lovers Romilda and Arsamene have been driven to the limits of their fidelity and patience. Instead of a traditional love duet, Handel gives them a musical lovers’ quarrel, “Troppo oltraggi la mia fede,” in which they reproach each other’s ingratitude. Their bickering is perfectly captured in the rapid back-and-forth of their musical phrases; the frenzy of the violins and violas describes their anger.
Their argument is stilled by Ariodate’s timely wedding ceremony. But now Serse enters to find he will not be the bridegroom after all, and it is his turn to explode in the spectacular aria “Crude furie,” which eclipses everything he’s sung before. The Baroque rage aria, with its opportunities for unbridled virtuosity, was a staple of opera seria. Handel had composed dozens of them for oratorios as well as operas, but none could exceed this portrait of a narcissistic king whose will has been thwarted. The sharply etched opening phrase is a stroke of genius, and the whirlwind of astonishing coloratura that follows satisfies every listener’s longing for vocalism at its most virtuosic.
That a happy ending could be achieved after this, and not a bloodbath, seems impossible, but the courageous Amastre manages to bring Serse to heel. The opera closes with one of Serse’s most exquisite arias, “Caro voi,” as Romilda expresses her enduring love for Arsamene and the chorus amplifies her hopes for the future.
—Janet E. Bedell
© 2022 Carnegie Hall