THE REFORMS OF GLUCK
The death of Lulli left French opera established upon a sure foundation.
The form which he perfected seemed, with all its faults, to commend
itself to the genius of the nation, and for many years a succession of
his followers and imitators, such as Campra and Destouches, continued to
produce works which differed little in scope and execution from the
model he had established. The French drama of the seventeenth century
had reached such a high point of development that its influence over the
sister art was all-powerful. The composers of the French court willingly
sacrificed musical to declamatory interest, and thus, while they steered
clear of the mere tunefulness which was the rock on which Italian
composers made shipwreck, they fell into the opposite extreme and wrote
works which seem to us arid and jejune. Paris at this time was curiously
isolated from the world of music, and it is strange to find how little
the development of Italian opera affected the French school. Marais
(1650-1718) was more alive to Southern influences than most of his
contemporaries, and in his treatment of the aria there is a perceptible
approach to Italian methods; but Rameau (1683-1764) brought back French
opera once more to its distinctive national style. Though he followed
the general lines of Lulli's school, he brought to bear upon it a richer
sense of beauty and a completer musical organisation than Lulli ever
possessed. In his treatment of declamation pure and simple, he was
perhaps Lulli's inferior, but in all other respects he showed a decided
advance upon his predecessor. He infused new life into the monotonous
harmony and well-worn modulations which had done duty for so many years.
His rhythms were novel and suggestive, and the originality and resource
of his orchestration opened the eyes of Frenchmen to new worlds of
beauty and expression. Not the least important part of Rameau's work lay
in the influence which his music exerted upon the genius of the man to
whom the regeneration of opera is mainly due. 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 for
ever 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 labour
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 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 at Vienna,
and there, under the shadow of the court, he produced a series of works
in which the attempt to realise dramatic truth is often distinctly
perceptible, though the composer had as yet not mastered the means for
its attainment. But in 1762 came 'Orfeo ed Euridice,' a work which
placed Gluck 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 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
condition 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 _naïveté_ 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, 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 farò 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. Strickly
speaking, Gluck was by no means a first-rate 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 influence of the empty formulas from which Gluck was
trying to escape. Throughout the opera there are unmistakable traces of
Rameau'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.
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 'Alceste' 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 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, but 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 endeavouring 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. The third act opens with the
lamentations of the people for their departed queen. Hercules, released
for a moment from his labours, enters and asks for Admetus. He 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 Euripides, where the death of Alcestis
and the strange conflict of Hercules with Death is 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 miraculous 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 in incident, so that the opera has never won
the success which it deserves, and is now almost completely forgotten.
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 'Iphigéne 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 Aulide' is
founded upon Racine's play, which in its turn had been derived from the
tragedy of Euripides. 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 Calchas 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, clamour 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, Calchas 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.
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 Areas, his attendant, to bid Clytemnestra fly with Iphigenia home
to Mycenae.
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 '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.
In 'Armide,' produced in 1777, he made another step forward. The
libretto was the same as that used by Lulli nearly a hundred years
before. The legend, already immortalised by Tasso, was strangely
different 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. Hidraot, 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 recognises the hand of the recalcitrant
Rinaldo, and the act ends with her vows of vengeance against the
invincible hero.
The second act shows Rinaldo in quest of adventures which may win him
the favour 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 down
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 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 Armida'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. He 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 splendour 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 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
colourless 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.
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 for
ever 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.' The
overture paints the gradual awakening 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 Agamemnon'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 arms 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 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 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 characterisation. 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 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.