The Great Mr. Handel

Short Story: "The Great Mr. Handel"

Here I was again, taking a walk in the streets of London in the year of our Lord, 16 February 1741. As I left my residence and embraced the cold wintry air, my hands soon after leaving became swollen with sores laden with perseverance from the harsh winter the current year impressed. My face was of the driest crustiness and paleness, like overcooked bread, yet not burned, and dusted with bits of red tempera and dried blood. Enduring the cold, I pressed forward this day, as I did every day of the year for the last eleven years of my time in London. I charged through the snow that blanketed the streets, as usual. I then became ill as I neared a corner street by the Thames. With my fatigue, I began to wonder if my hourly walk would need an amendment or if I could still brave the cold.

For months it was easy to take a stroll even in the most adverse weather or seasons. One probable reason why I felt the need to retire early on was that I was taking a completely different route for my walking routine just to see where the winds would drop me. But on this day, I just happened to stop in my tracks for fear of becoming confused or lost in this new direction. I should say that I’m well into my years and it is often with great difficulty to walk as a healthy young man would freely, and walking is perhaps a pursuit driven only by the ideal to keep me youthful and apt.

But I stopped indeed.

Suddenly I was overcome. Bouts of confusion, paranoia, and fear drowned my judgment, focus, and confidence. After a while, I decided to stand by a nearby building adjacent to an overpass bridge of the Thames. I was having a grave yet a modest form of delirium that was determined to keep me down and discourage forward movement. It was this day, and in this very place by the corner on the river that I met Mr. Handel, where heaven had graciously led me to behold the master himself.

As I stood at the corner, I heard the most beautiful tones of melody and polyphony. Spectacular arousal of curiosity befell upon me, and before I knew it, I was overcome with joy, and all of my infirmity and senselessness was purified. I knew where I was, and indeed I was in the right place at precisely the right time. I just stood, for what felt like an hour, abrading the tones that I heard into my ears. A harpsichord was my first and correct guess for the medium of the pitch. The scalar passages heard were so refined and were executed with the most excellent ease, delicacy, and grace to the point that each note became utterly transparent, like glass. At that moment, I believed that God had befallen upon me.

As I eased closer to the building, the overcast died, the sun became prominent, and I was just able to peek inside of the casement near the shutters. Beyond this window sat a man. Now, of course, don’t partake me, I had heard of Mr. Handel for some time. I was not as frequently acquainted with the musical fashion of the time, but I did hear some of Handel’s operas, odes and especially the anthems for His Majesty at their respective commencements. I did not until this time, know of his residence or estate and was pleasantly surprised to find him here by the water. It was this day, at this time, in this place, at this very moment that somehow changed my entire life and outlook. Something came upon me by the aid of the music. Perhaps divination or transcendence in one form or another.

As I looked further, I beheld a man of massive stature, a frame composed of portliness and intensity. His clothing consisted of an excellent golden coat, and he wore a beautiful white wig as it was freezing on this day if I do say so. He was seated at a grand harpsichord and on top rested a viola da braccio and in the corner sat both a bass viol and viola da gamba. The reason I know and dictate these things, even with my lack of musical education, is because Mr. Handel explained these objects to me when we soon met and shared light words. He told music in a way that made absolute sense, and each of the words he spake had great significance. It would be downgrading to speak of this man lacking charisma in any capacity.

I learned that this was Mr. Handel or simply Handel. A Neapolitan man, born in Germany, living in England, and writing and conducting Italian opera. He was seated at the keyboard, and the music that allured my ears on my walk so happened to be a set of keyboard suites written some forty-five years prior but were only recently published.

Suddenly with haste and without expectation, he arose, his stature and omnipresence consuming the room in awe and he looked straight out of the window as if he had felt the presence of a spy and wanted to outwit the latter in a dual. He uttered something in a sort of German or broken English dialect, fluttered his hands in the air, arose, and rushed to the main door with great haste. He seemed to be distressed and troubled at that moment. For some unknown reason, I didn’t run off but instead walked to the door to receive him with reverence. He violently opened the door with the utmost force and demanded my whereabouts, position (or rank), and my purpose for spying. I was completely relaxed and tranquil, perhaps for the fact that I was standing before a great and mighty man. A musical genius beyond reason and tradition. I was overcome with delight and humility to be in his presence. I then spake my position as an archbishop of the Church of England. My purpose was simply to walk at this time of day, but I thought the master would have no taste in such matters.

I then pardoned myself, and his expression turned into that of a perplexed baboon. His ears curled up, and he spoke in a broken English that was impossible to understand. The only word that was salvaged from his gorged lips was “musick.” He began to repeat the word in a growing crescendo until he was modestly yelling out into the street. I held up my hand in a stopping manner, calmed the man down, held up my hand, and asked with great respect if I could enter his estate to hear something. He allowed me so possibly out of the fact that I was a sensible old man who had been mesmerized by his music. I described the events to him over that I told of early on as he sat at the keyboard and me on a wooden chair, the heavenly polyphony, the delusive fear that overtook me just before the music impressed itself upon my ear. He took me by the hand and sat me down on a chair by the keyboard.

He then began to play. Melody swarmed the room, and all things amid the sound appeared to be enlightened. I was there for two-hours and heavily deviated from my agenda, but it was well worth the time in the presence of Handel. He described his music to me, a keyboard sonata with a fugue that contained 4 voices that required revision. He then pardoned his own strange mannerisms and rudeness, and we were from then on friendly for the rest of the meeting. I thanked him for the music and made my way out of the house. He graciously closed the door, and I never saw his face again until later that year at a benefit concert in Dublin.

I will soon be attending several of his concerts in the future, and I attest from what I heard that day in February, I affirmed that the show would be of good merit. And indeed it was. It had been about a year, and the concert that took place was the premiere of Messiah, an oratorio that so happened to be based on selections from holy scripture. The performance was well merited, and I was so thankful to be alive as I was going on seventy. My spirit was renewed that day, just the same as the year when I first met Mr. Handel.