Handel becomes Blind nothing. He besought the master to make his peace with his father before it was too late. That two lives, so closely linked through bad days and good, should be separated by bitterness at the close was a tragedy, the weight of which was better perceived by the younger Smith than either of them. Probably Handel had long since forgiven the elder Smith, for he had no sense of malice. Now it was the son who brought the two veterans together again. The name of Smith the elder went back in Handel's will, and, not only was the original legacy of £500 restored, but an additional sum of £1500 added to it! Could the master have stooped more graciously, or forgiveness have been made more sublime? The announcement that Handel had now completely lost his sight appeared in the Theatrical Register of 27th January 1753. The most formidable enemy of all his life's garnering had beaten him. Yet he showed no inclination to draw away into seclusion and so hide his hurt. The fever to work pressed him when the calmness of resignation followed the first fierce rebellion against his affliction. He had a dread of idleness, a dread of being helpless in a corner and waiting for death. He began to try to accommodate his life to the new order of things. He sent for the younger Smith, who was travelling on the Continent, to return at once and organise the season's concerts. There was no bending to the yoke of oppression. If he could not compose with the old strenuous fervour, he could still play. He practised for hours a day. He sat at the instrument and extemporised from the dreams that came to his mental vision, his chords as brilliant, his melodies as sweet as they had ever been. On Sundays he still appeared a regular worshipper in St George's, Hanover Square. With the assistance of Christopher Smith, Handel gave a full season's concerts at Covent Garden in 1753, the master performing his concertos from memory, but ultimately he extemporised. Had he not been able to work at this period, even in this modified degree, his life would have become unbearable. It was the atmosphere of his concerts, the knowledge that he was still an important figure in them, that eased his affliction. If he were not completely blind at this period-and on this point there is a little doubt-it was quite impossible for him to see anything except it were held close to the eye. He was to all intents and purposes, a blind man. Once more Fate juggled with him. Though he was helpless, he began to make money more rapidly by these concerts than he had ever done before! Handel's position in London was now quite clearly defined; he was the absolute master of English music. His rivals had gone; their music had been forgotten. His enemies had dispersed or buried their hates, save that in 1753 one of them put an anonymous announcement in a London newspaper to the effect that the Foundling Hospital was preparing an elaborate funeral service for the day following the musician's decease. It was an act as wanton as that of Smith at Tunbridge Wells. The fury of the Hospital Governors knew no bounds. The Secretary was sent to convey personally to Handel their disgust at such a heartless trick, and to assure him that they hoped he would live for many years. Handel received the messenger and the message. If the former had expected a burst of anger against the malcontent he was mistaken. He received only a laugh. "It was," declared Handel, " very bad farce! " Christopher Smith was now in the position of absolute manager, and he remained so till the end. Only in 1753 did John Stanley, a brilliant organist of the period, who had been blind ever since he was two years old, conduct a performance of Alexander's Feast. It was Sharp the oculist who first suggested to Handel, on losing his sight, that Stanley would be of great assistance to him, which drew the trite answer from Handel: "If the blind lead the blind, shall they not both fall into the ditch ?" The years crept past Handel and still he lived. London became accustomed to the blind figure sitting beside the organ at the later revivals of his oratorios. Susanna was repeated, Samson, Jephtha, all of them with new songs added. The giant had not spent his force though he had lost his sight. He worked steadily, dictating his new work to Christopher Smith, since he could no longer score the notes himself. He would not rest, no one could induce him to rest, for his mind was as active as it had ever been. His hands were swollen with gout, he The Smile of Fortune moved about with the greatest anguish. In every way he was a law unto himself in the matter of what he did, and any attempt to thwart him, even for his own good, brought forth the quick whip of temper. He was still making money fast. Before he had been blind a couple of years he had not only cleared all his debts, but had considerable funds in hand. He stood now without a creditor, a happy position unknown to him since the days of his beginnings. A beggar in 1746, and in 1759 he died worth £20,000 in savings, and all his debtors satisfied in full! Most of the money had been made by giving London revivals of the work at which London had scoffed when it was first produced in the heyday of his enthusiasm. How he must have laughed at London! In 1757 he entirely revised The Triumph of Time and Truth. The words by Panfili, which he had set in all the ardour of youth in 1708, were translated by Morell. Indeed, it was Morell who alone collaborated with him in his later years. Jennens, having inherited untold wealth, had withdrawn to the anxieties of spending it. But Morell, the queer little parson with his high cheek-bones, half-fed expression and furtive eyes, would come to Brook Street with the honour of being one of the few people welcomed within that door. At least half of the 1757 version of The Triumph of Time and Truth was new work, laboriously produced through the instrumentality of Smith. But it was so fresh, its melody so true, that no waning of Handel's powers can be detected. The public liked the work, for it was given to crowded houses four times that year, and twice in 1758. Nevertheless, the body of Handel was dying. Only his brain lived on. But the sun had reached the hills. And yet, to Handel, how short had been the day! |