Whatever it was, the fact of Haydn's approval would make it an easy matter to discuss the subject of lessons, whether now or later. Beethoven did not start for Vienna until November, and it appears that immediately before that date some formal communication had been made with Haydn in reference to his studies. On the 29th of October Count Waldstein wrote:

"DEAR BEETHOVEN,—You are travelling to Vienna in fulfillment of your long-cherished wish. The genius of Mozart is still weeping and bewailing the death of her favourite. With the inexhaustible Haydn she found a refuge, but no occupation, and is now waiting to leave him and join herself to someone else. Labour assiduously, and receive Mozart's spirit from the hands of Haydn."

This was not exactly complimentary to Haydn, but Beethoven doubtless had the good sense not to repeat the count's words. When the young artist arrived in Vienna, he found Haydn living at the Hamberger Haus, No. 992 (since demolished), and thither he went for his lessons. From Beethoven's own notes of expenses we find that his first payment was made to Haydn on December 12. The sum entered is 8 groschen (about 9 1/2 d.), which shows at least that Haydn was not extravagant in his charges.

Master and Pupil

Beethoven's studies were in strict counterpoint, and the text-book was that same "Gradus ad Parnassum" of Fux which Haydn had himself contended with in the old days at St Stephen's. How many exercises Beethoven wrote cannot be said, but 245 have been preserved, of which, according to Nottebohm, Haydn corrected only forty-two. Much ink has been wasted in discussing the relations of these distinguished composers. There is no denying that Haydn neglected his young pupil, but one may find another excuse for the neglect besides that of his increasing age and his engrossing occupations. Beethoven was already a musical revolutionist: Haydn was content to walk in the old ways. The two men belonged almost to different centuries, and the disposition which the younger artist had for "splendid experiments" must have seemed to the mature musician little better than madness and licentious irregularity. "He will never do anything in decent style," was Albrechtsberger's dictum after giving Beethoven a series of lessons.

Haydn's opinion of Beethoven's future was not so dogmatically expressed; but he must have been sorely puzzled by a pupil who looked upon even consecutive fifths as an open question, and thought it a good thing to "learn occasionally what is according to rule that one may hereafter come to what is contrary to rule." It is said that Haydn persisted in regarding Beethoven, not as a composer at all but as a pianoforte player; and certainly Beethoven regarded Haydn as being behind the age. That he was unjust to Haydn cannot be gainsaid. He even went so far as to suspect Haydn of willfully trying to retard him in his studies, a proceeding of which Haydn was altogether incapable. For many years he continued to discharge splenetic remarks about his music, and he was always annoyed at being called his pupil. "I never learned anything from Haydn," he would say; "he never would correct my mistakes." When, the day after the production of his ballet music to Prometheus, he met Haydn in the street, the old man observed to him: "I heard your music last night; I liked it very well." To which Beethoven, alluding to Haydn's oratorio, replied: "Oh! dear master, it is far from being a CREATION." The doubtful sincerity of this remark may be inferred from an anecdote quoted by Moscheles. Haydn had been told that Beethoven was speaking depreciatingly of "The Creation." "That is wrong of him," he said. "What has HE written, then? His Septet? Certainly that is beautiful; nay, splendid."

Beethoven on Haydn

It is hardly necessary to say who comes out best in these passages at arms. Yet we must not be too hard on Beethoven. That he recognized Haydn's genius as a composer no careful reader of his biography can fail to see. As Pohl takes pains to point out, he spoke highly of Haydn whenever opportunity offered, often chose one of his themes when improvising in public, scored one of his quartets for his own use, and lovingly preserved the autograph of one of the English symphonies. That he came in the end to realize his true greatness is amply proved by the story already related which represents him as exclaiming on his death-bed upon the fact of Haydn having been born in a common peasant's cottage.

In the meantime, although Beethoven was dissatisfied with his progress under Haydn, there was no open breach between the two. It is true that the young musician sought another teacher—one Schenck, a well-known Viennese composer—but this was done without Haydn's knowledge, out of consideration, we may assume, for his feelings. That master and pupil were still on the best of terms may be gathered from their having been at Eisenstadt together during the summer of 1793. In the January of the following year Haydn set out on his second visit to England, and Beethoven transferred himself to Albrechtsberger.

The Haydn Museum

Haydn's life in Vienna during the eighteen months which intervened between the two London visits was almost totally devoid of incident. His wife, it will be remembered, had written to him in England, asking for money to buy a certain house which she fancied for a "widow's home." Haydn was astute enough not to send the money, but on his return to Vienna, finding the house in every way to his liking, he bought it himself. Frau Haydn died seven years later, "and now," said the composer, speaking in 1806, "I am living in it as a widower." The house is situated in the suburb of Vienna known as Gumpendorf. It is No. 19 of the Haydngasse and bears a marble memorial tablet, affixed to it in 1840. The pious care of the composer's admirers has preserved it almost exactly as it was in Haydn's day, and has turned it into a kind of museum containing portraits and mementoes of the master, the original manuscript of "The Creation," and other interesting relics.

Starts for London

Haydn started on his journey to England on January 19, 1794, Salomon having brought him, under a promise to return with six new symphonies which he was to conduct in person. This time he travelled down the Rhine, and he had not been many days on the way when news reached him of the death of Prince Anton Esterhazy, who had very reluctantly given him leave of absence. On the occasion of the first London visit Salomon had been his travelling companion; now, feeling doubtless the encumbrance of increasing years, Haydn took his servant and copyist, Johann Elssler, along with him.

Honest Elssler

It may be noted in passing that he entertained a very warm regard for Elssler, whose father had been music copyist to Prince Esterhazy. He was born at Eisenstadt in 1769, and, according to Pohl, lived the whole of his life with Haydn, first as copyist, and then as general servant and factotum. It was Elssler who tended the composer in his last years, a service recompensed by the handsome bequest of 6000 florins, which he lived to enjoy until 1843. No man, it has been said, is a hero to his valet, but "Haydn was to Elssler a constant subject of veneration, which he carried so far that when he thought himself unobserved he would stop with the censer before his master's portrait as if it were the altar." This "true and honest servant" copied a large amount of Haydn's music, partly in score, partly in separate parts, much of which is now treasured as the autograph of Haydn, though the handwritings of the two are essentially different. It is a pity that none of the earlier writers on Haydn thought of applying to Elssler for particulars of the private life of the composer. He could have given information on many obscure points, and could have amplified the details of this second London visit, about which we know much less than we know about the former visit.

The Salomon Concerts

Salomon's first concert had been arranged for the 3rd of February, but Haydn did not arrive until the 4th, and the series accordingly began upon the 10th. Twelve concerts were given in all, and with the most brilliant success. The six new symphonies commissioned by Salomon were performed, and the previous set were also repeated, along with some new quartets. Of the many contemporary notices of the period, perhaps the most interesting is that which appears in the Journal of Luxury and Fashion, published at Weimar in July 1794. It is in the form of a London letter, written on March 25, under the heading of "On the Present State and Fashion of Music in England." After speaking of Salomon's efforts on behalf of classical music and of the praise due to him for his performance of the quartets of "our old favourite, Haydn," the writer continues: "But what would you now say to his new symphonies composed expressly for these concerts, and directed by himself at the piano? It is truly wonderful what sublime and august thoughts this master weaves into his works. Passages often occur which render it impossible to listen to them without becoming excited. We are altogether carried away by admiration, and forced to applaud with hand and mouth. This is especially the case with Frenchmen, of whom we have so many here that all public places are filled with them. You know that they have great sensibility, and cannot restrain their transports, so that in the midst of the finest passages in soft adagios they clap their hands in loud applause and thus mar the effect. In every symphony of Haydn the adagio or andante is sure to be repeated each time, after the most vehement encores. The worthy Haydn, whose personal acquaintance I highly value, conducts himself on these occasions in the most modest manner. He is indeed a good-hearted, candid, honest man, esteemed and beloved by all."

Several notable incidents occurred at the Salomon Concerts. It has been remarked, as "an event of some interest in musical history," that Haydn and Wilhelm Cramer appeared together at one concert, Cramer as leader of the orchestra, Haydn conducting from the pianoforte. But Cramer was not a genius of the first rank—his compositions are of the slightest importance—and there was nothing singular about his appearing along with Haydn. He had been leader at the Handel Festivals at Westminster Abbey in 1784 and 1787, and was just the man to be engaged for an enterprise like that of Salomon's.

A "Smart" Drummer

An anecdote told of Haydn in connection with one of the rehearsals is better worth noting. The drummer was found to be absent. "Can anyone here play the drum?" inquired Haydn, looking round from his seat at the piano. "I can," promptly replied young George (afterwards Sir George) Smart, who was sitting among the violinists. Smart, who lived to become the doyen of the musical profession in England, had never handled a drumstick before, and naturally failed to satisfy the conductor. Haydn took the drumstick from him and "showed to the astonished orchestra a new and unexpected attitude in their leader." Then, turning to Smart, he remarked: "That is how we use the drumsticks in Germany." "Oh, very well," replied the unabashed youth, "if you like it better in that way we can also do it so in London."

New Acquaintances

Haydn made several new acquaintances during this visit, the most notable being, perhaps, Dragonetti, the famous double-bass player, who had accompanied Banti, the eminent prima donna, to London in 1794. Banti had been discovered as a chanteuse in a Paris cafe, and afterwards attracted much notice by her fine voice both in Paris and London. "She is the first singer in Italy, and drinks a bottle of wine every day," said one who knew her. In her journeys through Germany, Austria and Italy she won many triumphs. Haydn composed for her an air, "Non Partir," in E, which she sang at his benefit. As for "Old Drag," the familiar designation of the distinguished bassist, his eccentricities must have provided Haydn with no little amusement. He always took his dog Carlo with him into the orchestra, and Henry Phillips tells us that, having a strange weakness for dolls, he often carried one of them to the festivals as his wife! On his way to Italy in 1798 Dragonetti visited Haydn in Vienna, and was much delighted with the score of "The Creation," just completed. Several eminent violinists were in London at the time of Haydn's visit. The most distinguished of them was perhaps Felice de Giardini, who, at the age of fourscore, produced an oratorio at Ranelagh Gardens, and even played a concerto. He had a perfectly volcanic temper, and hated Haydn as the devil is said to hate holy water. "I don't wish to see the German dog," he remarked in the composer's hearing, when urged to pay him a visit. Haydn, as a rule, was kindly disposed to all brother artists, but to be called a dog was too much, He went to hear Giardini, and then got even with him by noting in his diary that he "played like a pig."

The accounts preserved of Haydn's second visit to England are, as already remarked, far less full than those of the first visit. Unconnected memoranda appear in his diary, some of which are given by Griesinger and Dies; but they are of comparatively little interest. During the summer of 1794 he moved about the country a good deal. Thus, about the 26th of August, he paid a visit to Waverley Abbey, whose "Annales Waverliensis" suggested to Scott the name of his first romance. The ruined condition of the venerable pile—it dates from 1128—set Haydn moralizing on the "Protestant heresy" which led the "rascal mob" to tear down "what had once been a stronghold of his own religion."

Haydn at Bath

In the following month he spent three days in Bath with Dr Burney, and Rauzzini, the famous tenor, who had retired to the fashionable watering-place after a successful career of thirteen years as a singer and teacher in London. Rauzzini is little more than a name now, but for Haydn's sake it is worth recalling his memory. Born at Rome in 1747, his striking beauty of face and figure had drawn him into certain entanglements which made it expedient for him to leave his native land. He was as fond of animals as Dragonetti was of dolls, and had erected a memorial tablet in his garden to his "best friend," otherwise his dog. "Turk was a faithful dog and not a man," ran the inscription, which reminds one of Schopenhauer's cynical observation that if it were not for the honest faces of dogs, we should forget the very existence of sincerity. When Haydn read the inscription he immediately proceeded to make use of the words for a four-part canon. It was presumably at this time that he became acquainted with Dr Henry Harington, the musician and author, who had removed to Bath in 1771, where he had founded the Harmonic Society. Haydn dedicated one of his songs to him in return for certain music and verses, which explains the following otherwise cryptic note of Clementi's, published for the first time recently by Mr J. S. Shedlock: "The first Dr [Harington] having bestowed much praise on the second Dr [Haydn], the said second Dr, out of doctorial gratitude, returns the 1st Dr thanks for all favours recd., and praises in his turn the said 1st Dr most handsomely." The title of Haydn's song was "Dr Harington's Compliments."

Opera Concerts

The composer returned to London at the beginning of October for the winter season's concerts. These began, as before, in February, and were continued once a week up to the month of May. This time they took the form of opera concerts, and were given at the "National School of Music" in the new concert-room of the King's Theatre. No fresh symphonies were contributed by Haydn for this series, though some of the old ones always found a place in the programmes. Two extra concerts were given on May 21 and June 1, at both of which Haydn appeared; but the composer's last benefit concert was held on May 4. On this occasion the programme was entirely confined to his own compositions, with the exception of concertos by Viotti, the violinist, and Ferlendis, the oboist. Banti sang the aria already mentioned as having been written expressly for her, but, according to the composer, "sang very scanty." The main thing, however, was that the concert proved a financial success, the net receipts amounting to 400 pounds. "It is only in England," said Haydn, "that one can make 4000 gulden in one evening."

Haydn did indeed remarkably well in London. As Pohl says, "he returned from it with increased powers, unlimited fame, and a competence for life. By concerts, lessons, and symphonies, not counting his other compositions, he had again made 1200 pounds, enough to relieve him from all anxiety as to the future. He often said afterwards that it was not till he had been to England that he became famous in Germany; by which he meant that although his reputation was high at home, the English were the first to give him public homage and liberal remuneration."

Kingly Courtesies

It is superfluous to say that Haydn was as much of a "lion" in London society during his second visit as he had been on the previous occasion. The attention bestowed on him in royal circles made that certain, for "society" are sheep, and royalty is their bell-wether. The Prince of Wales had rather a fancy for him, and commanded his attendance at Carlton House no fewer than twenty-six times. At one concert at York House the programme was entirely devoted to his music. George III and Queen Caroline were present, and Haydn was presented to the King by the Prince. "You have written a great deal, Dr Haydn," said the King. "Yes, sire," was the reply; "more than is good for me." "Certainly not," rejoined His Majesty. He was then presented to the Queen, and asked to sing some German songs. "My voice," he said, pointing to the tip of his little finger, "is now no bigger than that"; but he sat down to the pianoforte and sang his song, "Ich bin der Verliebteste." He was repeatedly invited by the Queen to Buckingham Palace, and she tried to persuade him to settle in England. "You shall have a house at Windsor during the summer months," she said, and then, looking towards the King, added, "We can sometimes make music tete-a-tete." "Oh! I am not jealous of Haydn," interposed the King; "he is a good, honourable German." "To preserve that reputation," replied Haydn, "is my greatest pride."

Most of Haydn's appearances were made at the concerts regularly organized for the entertainment of royalty at Carlton House and Buckingham Palace, and Haydn looked to be paid for his services. Whether the King and the Prince expected him to give these services in return for the supposed honour they had conferred upon him does not appear. At all events, Haydn sent in a bill for 100 guineas sometime after his return to Vienna, and the amount was promptly paid by Parliament.

A Valuable Parrot

Among the other attentions bestowed upon him while in London, mention should be made of the present of a talking parrot. Haydn took the bird with him, and it was sold for 140 pounds after his death. Another gift followed him to Vienna. A Leicester manufacturer named Gardiner—he wrote a book on The Music of Nature, and other works—sent him half a dozen pairs of cotton stockings, into which were woven the notes of the Austrian Hymn, "My mother bids me bind my hair," the Andante from the "Surprise" Symphony, and other thematic material. These musical stockings, as a wit has observed, must have come as a REAL surprise to Haydn. It was this same Leicester manufacturer, we may remark parenthetically, who annotated the translation of Bombet's Life of Haydn, made by his fellow-townsman, Robert Brewin, in 1817.

Haydn's return from London was hastened by the receipt of a communication from Esterhaz. Prince Anton had been succeeded by his son Nicolaus, who was as fond of music as the rest of his family, and desired to keep his musical establishment up to the old standard. During the summer of 1794 he had written to Haydn, asking if the composer would care to retain his appointment as director. Haydn was only too glad to assent; and now that his London engagements were fulfilled, he saw no reason for remaining longer in England. Accordingly he started for home on the 15th of August 1795, travelling by way of Hamburg, Berlin and Dresden, and arriving at Vienna in the early days of September.

Rohrau Reminiscences

Soon after his return he was surprised to receive an invitation to visit his native Rohrau. When he arrived there he found that a monument, with a marble bust of himself, had been erected to his honour in a park near his birthplace. This interesting memorial consists of a square pillar surmounting three stone steps, with an inscription on each side. The visit was productive of mingled feelings to Haydn. He took his friends to see the old thatch-roofed cottage, and, pointing to the familiar stove, still in its place, modestly remarked that there his career as a musician began—a reminiscence of the now far-away time when he sat by his father's side and sawed away on his improvised fiddle.

Esterhaz once more

There is little to say about Haydn's labours as Capellmeister of the Esterhazy household at this time. Apparently he was only at Eisenstadt for the summer and autumn. Down to 1802, however, he always had a mass ready for Princess Esterhazy's name-day in September. These compositions are Nos. 2, 1, 3, 16, 4 and 6 of the Novello edition. No. 2, Pohl tells us, was composed in 1796, and called the "Paukenmesse," from the fact of the drums being used in the Agnus. No. 3 was written in 1797. It is known in England as the Imperial Mass, but in Germany as "Die Nelsonmesse," on account of its having been performed during Nelson's visit to Eisenstadt in 1800. On that occasion Nelson asked Haydn for his pen, and gave him his own gold watch in exchange.

The Austrian Hymn

It was shortly after his return to Vienna—in January 1797, to be precise—that he composed his favourite air, "God preserve the Emperor," better known as the Austrian Hymn. The story of this celebrated composition is worth telling with some minuteness. Its inception was due to Count von Saurau, Imperial High Chancellor and Minister of the Interior. Writing in 1820, the count said:

I often regretted that we had not, like the English, a national air calculated to display to all the world the loyal devotion of our people to the kind and upright ruler of our Fatherland, and to awaken within the hearts of all good Austrians that noble national pride so indispensable to the energetic fulfillment of all the beneficial measures of the sovereign. This seemed to me more urgent at a period when the French Revolution was raging most furiously, and when the Jacobins cherished the idle hope of finding among the worthy Viennese partisans and participators in their criminal designs. [The scandalous Jacobin persecutions and executions in Austria and Hungary took place in 1796]. I caused that meritorious poet Haschka to write the words, and applied to our immortal countryman Haydn to set them to music, for I considered him alone capable of writing anything approaching in merit to the English "God save the King." Such was the origin of our national hymn.

It would not have been difficult to match "God save the King," the mediocrity of which, especially as regards the words, has been the butt of countless satirists. Beethoven wrote in his diary that he "must show the English what a blessing they have" in that "national disgrace." If Haydn regarded it as a "blessing," he certainly did not take it as a model. He produced an air which, looking at it from a purely artistic point of view, is the best thing of the national anthem kind that has ever been written. The Emperor was enchanted with it when sung on his birthday, February 12, 1797, at the National Theatre in Vienna, and through Count Saurau sent the composer a gold box adorned with a facsimile of the royal features. "Such a surprise and such a mark of favour, especially as regards the portrait of my beloved monarch," wrote Haydn, "I never before received in acknowledgment of my poor talents."

Haydn's Love for It

We have several indications of Haydn's predilection for this fine air, which has long been popular as a hymn tune in all the churches. He wrote a set of variations for it as the Andante of his "Kaiser Quartet." Griesinger tells us, too, that as often as the warm weather and his strength permitted, during the last few years of his life, he used to be led into his back room that he might play it on the piano. It is further related by Dies that, during the bombardment of Vienna in May 1809, Haydn seated himself at his instrument every forenoon to give forth the sound of the favourite song. Indeed, on May 26, only five days before his death, he played it over three times in succession, and "with a degree of expression that astonished himself." As one writer puts it, the air "seemed to have acquired a certain sacredness in his eyes in an age when kings were beheaded and their crowns tossed to the rabble."

Haydn's first sketch of the melody was found among his papers after his death. We reproduce it here, with an improvement shown in small notes. There are, it will be observed, some slight differences between the draft and the published version of the air:

[figure: a musical score excerpt from the draft]

[figure: a musical score excerpt from the published version]

The collecting of what Tennyson called "the chips of the workshop" is not as a rule an edifying business, but the evolution of a great national air must always be interesting.

Plagiarism or Coincidence?

It might perhaps be added that Dr Kuhac, the highest authority on Croatian folk-song, asserted in an article contributed to the Croatian Review (1893) that the Austrian National Hymn was based on a Croatian popular air. In reviewing Kuhac's collection of Croatian melodies, a work in four volumes, containing 1600 examples, Dr Reimann signifies his agreement with Kuhac, and adds that Haydn employed Croatian themes not only in "God preserve the Emperor," but in many passages of his other works. These statements must not be taken too seriously. Handel purloined wholesale from brother composers and said nothing about it. The artistic morality of Haydn's age was different, and, knowing his character as we do, we may be perfectly sure that if he had of set purpose introduced into any of his compositions music which was not his own he would, in some way or other, have acknowledged the debt. This hunting for plagiarisms which are not plagiarisms at all but mere coincidences—coincidences which are and must be inevitable—is fast becoming a nuisance, and it is the duty of every serious writer to discredit the practice. The composer of "The Creation" had no need to borrow his melodies from any source.



CHAPTER VII. "THE CREATION" AND "THE SEASONS"

Haydn's Crowning Achievement—"The Creation" suggested—The "Unintelligible Jargon" of the Libretto—The Stimulating Effect of London—Haydn's Self-Criticism—First Performance of "The Creation"—London Performances—French Enthusiasm—The Oratorio criticized—"The Seasons."

Haydn's Crowning Achievement

Haydn rounded his life with "The Creation" and "The Seasons." They were the summit of his achievement, as little to be expected from him, considering his years, as "Falstaff" was to be expected from the octogenarian Verdi. Some geniuses flower late. It was only now, by his London symphonies and his "Creation," that Haydn's genius blossomed so luxuriantly as to place him with almost amazing suddenness among the very first of composers. There is hardly anything more certain than this, that if he had not come to London he would not have stood where he stands to-day. The best of his symphonies were written for London; and it was London, in effect, that set him to work in what was for him practically a new direction, leading to the production of an oratorio which at once took its place by the side of Handel's master-pieces, and rose to a popularity second only to that of "The Messiah" itself.

"The Creation" suggested

The connection thus established between the names of Handel and Haydn is interesting, for there can be little question that Haydn was led to think of writing a large choral work chiefly as the result of frequently hearing Handel's oratorios during his visits to the metropolis. The credit of suggesting "The Creation" to Haydn is indeed assigned to Salomon, but it is more than probable that the matter had already been occupying his thoughts. It has been explicitly stated [See note by C.H. Purday in Leisure Hour for 1880, p. 528.] that, being greatly impressed with the effect produced by "The Messiah," Haydn intimated to his friend Barthelemon his desire to compose a work of the same kind. He asked Barthelemon what subject he would advise for such a purpose, and Barthelemon, pointing to a copy of the Bible, replied: "There! take that, and begin at the beginning." This story is told on apparently good authority. But it hardly fits in with the statements of biographers. According to the biographers, Salomon handed the composer a libretto originally selected for Handel from Genesis and Paradise Lost by Mr Lidley or Liddell. That this was the libretto used by Haydn is certain, and we may therefore accept it as a fact that Haydn's most notable achievement in choral music was due in great measure to the man who had brought him to London, and had drawn from him the finest of his instrumental works.

"The Creation" Libretto

Before proceeding further we may deal finally with the libretto of "The Creation." The "unintelligible jargon" which disfigures Haydn's immortal work has often formed the subject of comment; and assuredly nothing that can be said of it can well be too severe. "The Creation" libretto stands to the present day as an example of all that is jejune and incongruous in words for music. The theme has in itself so many elements of inspiration that it is a matter for wonder how, for more than a century, English-speaking audiences have listened to the arrant nonsense with which Haydn's music is associated. As has been well observed, "the suburban love-making of our first parents, and the lengthy references to the habits of the worm and the leviathan are almost more than modern flesh and blood can endure." Many years ago a leading musical critic wrote that there ought to be enough value, monetarily speaking, in "The Creation" to make it worth while preparing a fresh libretto; for, said he, "the present one seems only fit for the nursery, to use in connection with Noah's ark." At the Norwich Festival performance of the oratorio in 1872, the words were, in fact, altered, but in all the published editions of the work the text remains as it was. It is usual to credit the composer's friend, Baron van Swieten, with the "unintelligible jargon." The baron certainly had a considerable hand in the adaptation of the text. But in reality it owes its very uncouth verbiage largely to the circumstance that it was first translated from English into German, and then re-translated back into English; the words, with the exception of the first chorus, being adapted to the music. Considering the ways of translators, the best libretto in the world could not but have suffered under such transformations, and it is doing a real injustice to the memory of Baron Swieten, the good friend of more than one composer, to hold him up needlessly to ridicule. [In one of George Thomson's letters to Mrs Hunter we read: "It it is not the first time that your muse and Haydn's have met, as we see from the beautiful canzonets. Would he had been directed by you about the words to 'The Creation'! It is lamentable to see such divine music joined with such miserable broken English. He (Haydn) wrote me lately that in three years, by the performance of 'The Creation' and 'The Seasons' at Vienna, 40,000 florins had been raised for the poor families of musicians."]

The Stimulus of London

Haydn set to work on "The Creation" with all the ardour of a first love. Naumann suggests that his high spirits were due to the "enthusiastic plaudits of the English people," and that the birth of both "The Creation" and "The Seasons" was "unquestionably owing to the new man he felt within himself after his visit to England." There was now, in short, burning within his breast, "a spirit of conscious strength which he knew not he possessed, or knowing, was unaware of its true worth." This is somewhat exaggerated. Handel wrote "The Messiah" in twenty-four days; it took Haydn the best part of eighteen months to complete "The Creation," from which we may infer that "the sad laws of time" had not stopped their operation simply because he had been to London. No doubt, as we have already more than hinted, he was roused and stimulated by the new scenes and the unfamiliar modes of life which he saw and experienced in England. His temporary release from the fetters of official life had also an exhilarating influence. So much we learn indeed from himself. Thus, writing from London to Frau von Genzinger, he says: "Oh, my dear, good lady, how sweet is some degree of liberty! I had a kind prince, but was obliged at times to be dependent on base souls. I often sighed for freedom, and now I have it in some measure. I am quite sensible of this benefit, though my mind is burdened with more work. The consciousness of being no longer a bond-servant sweetens all my toils." If this liberty, this contact with new people and new forms of existence, had come to Haydn twenty years earlier, it might have altered the whole current of his career. But it did not help him much in the actual composition of "The Creation," which he found rather a tax, alike on his inspiration and his physical powers. Writing to Breitkopf & Hartel on June 12, 1799, he says: "The world daily pays me many compliments, even on the fire of my last works; but no one could believe the strain and effort it costs me to produce these, inasmuch as many a day my feeble memory and the unstrung state of my nerves so completely crush me to the earth, that I fall into the most melancholy condition, so much so that for days afterwards I am incapable of finding one single idea, till at length my heart is revived by Providence, when I seat myself at the piano and begin once more to hammer away at it. Then all goes well again, God be praised!"

Self-Criticism

In the same letter he remarks that, "as for myself, now an old man, I hope the critics may not handle my 'Creation' with too great severity, and be too hard on it. They may perhaps find the musical orthography faulty in various passages, and perhaps other things also which I have for so many years been accustomed to consider as minor points; but the genuine connoisseur will see the real cause as readily as I do, and will willingly cast aside such stumbling blocks." It is impossible to miss the significance of all this.

[At this point in the original book, a facsimile of a letter regarding "The Creation" takes up the entire next page.]

Certainly it ought to be taken into account in any critical estimate of "The Creation"; for when a man admits his own shortcomings it is ungracious, to say the least, for an outsider to insist upon them. It is obvious at any rate that Haydn undertook the composition of the oratorio in no light-hearted spirit. "Never was I so pious," he says, "as when composing 'The Creation.' I felt myself so penetrated with religious feeling that before I sat down to the pianoforte I prayed to God with earnestness that He would enable me to praise Him worthily." In the lives of the great composers there is only one parallel to this frame of mind—the religious fervour in which Handel composed "The Messiah."

First Performance of the Oratorio

The first performance of "The Creation" was of a purely private nature. It took place at the Schwartzenburg Palace, Vienna, on the 29th of April 1798, the performers being a body of dilettanti, with Haydn presiding over the orchestra. Van Swieten had been exerting himself to raise a guarantee fund for the composer, and the entire proceeds of the performance, amounting to 350 pounds, were paid over to him. Haydn was unable to describe his sensations during the progress of the work. "One moment," he says, "I was as cold as ice, the next I seemed on fire; more than once I thought I should have a fit." A year later, on the 19th of March 1799, to give the exact date, the oratorio was first heard publicly at the National Theatre in Vienna, when it produced the greatest effect. The play-bill announcing the performance (see next page) had a very ornamental border, and was, of course, in German.

[At this point in the original book, a facsimile of the first play-bill for "The Creation" takes up the entire next page.]

Next year the score was published by Breitkopf & Hartel, and no fewer than 510 copies, nearly half the number subscribed for, came to England. The title-page was printed both in German and English, the latter reading as follows: "The Creation: an Oratorio composed by Joseph Haydn, Doctor of Musik, and member of the Royal Society of Musik, in Sweden, in actuel (sic) service of His Highness the Prince of Esterhazy, Vienna, 1800." Clementi had just set up a musical establishment in London, and on August 22, 1800, we find Haydn writing to his publishers to complain that he was in some danger of losing 2000 gulden by Clementi's non-receipt of a consignment of copies.

London Performances

Salomon, strangely enough, had threatened Haydn with penalties for pirating his text, but he thought better of the matter, and now wrote to the composer for a copy of the score, so that he might produce the oratorio in London. He was, however, forestalled by Ashley, who was at that time giving performances of oratorio at Covent Garden Theatre, and who brought forward the new work on the 28th of March (1800). An amusing anecdote is told in this connection. The score arrived by a King's messenger from Vienna on Saturday, March 22, at nine o'clock in the evening. It was handed to Thomas Goodwin, the copyist of the theatre, who immediately had the parts copied out for 120 performers. The performance was on the Friday evening following, and when Mr Harris, the proprietor of the theatre, complimented all parties concerned on their expedition, Goodwin, with ready wit, replied: "Sir, we have humbly emulated a great example; it is not the first time that the Creation has been completed in six days." Salomon followed on the 21st of April with a performance at the King's Theatre, Mara and Dussek taking the principal parts. Mara remarked that it was the first time she had accompanied an orchestra!

French Enthusiasm

Strange to say—for oratorio has never been much at home in France—"The Creation" was received with immense enthusiasm in Paris when it was first performed there in the summer of this same year. Indeed, the applause was so great that the artists, in a fit of transport, and to show their personal regard for the composer, resolved to present him with a large gold medal. The medal was designed by the famous engraver, Gateaux. It was adorned on one side with a likeness of Haydn, and on the other side with an ancient lyre, over which a flame flickered in the midst of a circle of stars. The inscription ran: "Homage a Haydn par les Musiciens qui ont execute l'oratorio de la Creation du Monde au Theatre des Arts l'au ix de la Republique Francais ou MDCCC." The medal was accompanied by a eulogistic address, to which the recipient duly replied in a rather flowery epistle. "I have often," he wrote, "doubted whether my name would survive me, but your goodness inspires me with confidence, and the token of esteem with which you have honoured me perhaps justifies my hope that I shall not wholly die. Yes, gentlemen, you have crowned my gray hairs, and strewn flowers on the brink of my grave." Seven years after this Haydn received another medal from Paris—from the Societe Academique des Enfants d'Apollon, who had elected him an honorary member.

A second performance of "The Creation" took place in the French capital on December 24, 1800, when Napoleon I. escaped the infernal machine in the Rue Nicaise. It was, however, in England, the home of oratorio, that the work naturally took firmest root. It was performed at the Worcester Festival of 1800, at the Hereford Festival of the following year, and at Gloucester in 1802. Within a few years it had taken its place by the side of Handel's best works of the kind, and its popularity remained untouched until Mendelssohn's "Elijah" was heard at Birmingham in 1847. Even now, although it has lost something of its old-time vogue, it is still to be found in the repertory of our leading choral societies. It is said that when a friend urged Haydn to hurry the completion of the oratorio, he replied: "I spend much time over it because I intend it to last a long time." How delighted he would have been could he have foreseen that it would still be sung and listened to with pleasure in the early years of the twentieth century.

"The Creation" criticized

No one thinks of dealing critically with the music of "The Messiah"; and it seems almost as thankless a task to take the music of "The Creation" to pieces. Schiller called it a "meaningless hotch-potch"; and even Beethoven, though he was not quite innocent of the same thing himself, had his sardonic laugh over its imitations of beasts and birds. Critics of the oratorio seldom fail to point out these "natural history effects"—to remark on "the sinuous motion of the worm," "the graceful gamboling of the leviathan," the orchestral imitations of the bellowing of the "heavy beasts," and such like. It is probably indefensible on purely artistic grounds. But Handel did it in "Israel in Egypt" and elsewhere. And is there not a crowing cock in Bach's "St Matthew Passion"? Haydn only followed the example of his predecessors.

Of course, the dispassionate critic cannot help observing that there is in "The Creation" a good deal of music which is finicking and something which is trumpery. But there is also much that is first-rate. The instrumental representation of chaos, for example, is excellent, and nothing in all the range of oratorio produces a finer effect than the soft voices at the words, "And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters." Even the fortissimo C major chord on the word "light," coming abruptly after the piano and mezzoforte minor chords, is as dazzling to-day as it was when first sung. It has been said that the work is singularly deficient in sustained choruses. That is true, if we are comparing it with the choruses of Handel's oratorios. But Haydn's style is entirely different from that of Handel. His choruses are designed on a much less imposing scale. They are more reflective or descriptive, much less dramatic. It was not in his way "to strike like a thunderbolt," as Mozart said of Handel. The descriptive effects which he desired to introduce into his orchestration made it necessary that he should throw the vocal element into a simpler mould. Allowance must be made for these differences. Haydn could never have written "The Messiah," but, on the other hand, Handel could never have written "The Creation."

The chief beauty of Haydn's work lies in its airs for the solo voices. While never giving consummate expression to real and deep emotion, much less sustained thought, they are never wanting in sincerity, and the melody and the style are as pure and good as those of the best Italian writing for the stage. With all our advance it is impossible to resist the freshness of "With verdure clad," and the tender charm of such settings as that of "Softly purling, glides on, thro' silent vales, the limpid brook." On the whole, however, it is difficult to sum up a work like "The Creation," unless, as has been cynically remarked, one is prepared to call it great and never go to hear it. It is not sublime, but neither is it dull. In another fifty years, perhaps, the critic will be able to say that its main interest is largely historic and literary. [See J. F. Runciman's Old Scores and New Readings, where an admirably just and concise appreciation of Haydn and "The Creation" may be read.]

A New Work

After such an unexpected success as that of "The Creation," it was only in the nature of things that Haydn's friends should persuade him to undertake the composition of a second work of the kind. Van Swieten was insistent, and the outcome of his importunity was "The Seasons." This work is generally classed as an oratorio, but it ought more properly to be called a cantata, being essentially secular as regards its text, though the form and style are practically the same as those of "The Creation." The libretto was again due to Swieten, who, of course, adapted the text from James Thomson's well-known poem.

"The Seasons"

It would certainly have been a pity to lose such a fresh, melodious little work as "The Seasons"; but it is only too apparent that while there was no appreciable failure of Haydn's creative force, his physical strength was not equal to the strain involved by a composition of such length. In 1806, when Dies found him rather weaker than usual, he dolorously remarked: "You see it is all over with me. Eight years ago it was different, but 'The Seasons' brought on this weakness. I ought never to have undertaken that work. It gave me the finishing stroke." He appears to have started on the work with great reluctance and with considerable distrust of his own powers, but once fairly committed to the undertaking he entered into it with something of his old animation, disputing so manfully with his librettist over certain points in the text that a serious rupture between the two was at one time imminent. The subject was probably not very congenial to Haydn, who, as the years advanced, was more and more inclined towards devotional themes. That at least seems to be the inference to be drawn from the remark which he made to the Emperor Francis on being asked which of his two oratorios he himself preferred. "'The Creation,'" answered Haydn. "In 'The Creation' angels speak and their talk is of God; in 'The Seasons' no one higher speaks than Farmer Simon."

"The Seasons" criticized

But whether he liked the theme or not, in the end he produced a work as fresh and genial and melodious as if it had been the work of his prime. If anyone sees in it an evidence of weakness, he is seeing only what he had expected to see. As Mr Rockstro remarks, not a trace of the "failing power" of which the grand old man complained is to be found in any part of it. It is a model of descriptive, contemplative work, and must please by its thoughtful beauty and illustrative power. True to Nature in its minutest details, it yet never insults her by trivial attempts at outward imitation where artistic suggestion of the hidden truth was, possible. The "delicious softness" of the opening chorus, and the perfection of rustic happiness portrayed in the song which describes the joy of the "impatient husbandman" are alone sufficient to prove that, whatever he may have thought about it himself, Haydn's genius was not appreciably waning.

The first performance of "The Seasons" took place at the Schwartzenburg Palace on the 24th of April 1801. It was repeated twice within a week; and on the 29th of May the composer conducted a grand public performance at the Redoutensaal. The work proved almost as successful as "The Creation." Haydn was enraptured with it, but he was never really himself again. As he said, it gave him the finishing stroke.



CHAPTER VIII. LAST YEARS

Failing Strength—Last Works—A Scottish Admirer—Song Accompaniments—Correspondence with George Thomson—Mrs Jordan—A Hitch—A "Previous" Letter of Condolence—Eventide—Last Public Appearance—The End—Funeral Honours—Desecration of Remains.

Failing Strength

Little is left to be told of the years which followed the production of "The Seasons." Haydn never really recovered from the strain which that last great effort of his genius had entailed. From his letters and the reminiscences of his friends we can read only too plainly the story of his growing infirmity. Even in 1799 he spoke of the diminution of his mental powers, and exclaimed: "Oh, God! how much yet remains to be done in this splendid art, even by a man like myself!" In 1802 he wrote of himself as "a gradually decaying veteran," enjoying only the feeble health which is "the inseparable companion of a gray-haired man of seventy." In December 1803 he made his last public exertion by conducting the "Seven Words" for the hospital fund at the Redoutensaal, and shortly afterwards wrote sadly of his "very great weakness." In 1804 he was asked to direct a performance of "The Creation," but declined on the score of failing strength. Gradually he withdrew himself almost entirely from the outside world, his general languor broken only by the visits of friends and by moods of passing cheerfulness. Cherubini, the Abbe Vogler, Pleyel, the Weber family, Hummel, Reichardt, and many others came to see him. Visits from members of the Esterhazy family gave him much pleasure. Mozart's widow also brought her son Wolfgang, to beg his blessing on the occasion of his first public concert in April 1805, for which he had composed a cantata in honour of Haydn's seventy-third birthday. But the homage of friends and admirers could not strengthen the weak hands or confirm the feeble knees. In 1806 Dies notes that his once-gleaming eye has become dull and heavy and his complexion sallow, while he suffers from "headache, deafness, forgetfulness and other pains." His old gaiety has completely gone, and even his friends have become a bore to him. "My remaining days," he said to Dies, "must all be spent in this lonely fashion.... I have many visitors, but it confuses me so much to talk to them that at last I scarcely know what I am saying and only long to be left in peace." The condition of a man of naturally genial and optimistic temperament can easily be imagined from all this—perhaps even more from the fact of his having a card printed to hand to inquirers who called, bearing the words:

Hin ist alle meine Kraft; Alt and schwach bin ich.

[Fled for ever is my strength; Old and weak am I.]

Last Works

But while Haydn was thus suffering from the natural disabilities of his years, he was not wholly divorced from his art. It is true that nothing of any real importance came from his pen after "The Seasons," but a good deal of work of various kinds was done, some of which it is impossible for the biographer to ignore. One rather novel undertaking carries us back to the end of 1799, about which time he was first asked by George Thomson, the friend of Burns, to write accompaniments for certain Scottish songs to be published in Thomson's well-known national collections. The correspondence which followed is interesting in many ways, and as it is not noticed in any other biography of Haydn, we propose to deal with it here. [The letters passed through the present writer's hands some five years ago, when he was preparing his Life of George Thomson(1898). They are now in the British Museum with the other Thomson correspondence.]

A Scottish Admirer

George Thomson engaged at one time or other the services of Beethoven, Pleyel, Weber, Hummel, Bishop and Kozeluch. But Haydn was his first love. A genius of the kind, he writes in 1811 "never before existed and probably never will be surpassed." He is "the inimitable Haydn," the "delectable," the "father of us all," and so on. On the other hand, Haydn was proud of what he did for Thomson. "I boast of this work," he said, "and by it I flatter myself my name will live in Scotland many years after my death." Nay, if we may trust an authority cited by Thomson, so highly did he think of "the symphonies and accompaniments which he composed for my melodies as to have the original score of each framed and hung all over the walls of his bedroom." Little wonder that Thomson "loved the dear old man" and regretted that his worldly circumstances did not allow him to erect a statue to the composer at his own expense!

We have called this writing of symphonies and accompaniments for George Thomson a novel undertaking. It was, however, only novel in the sense of being rather out of Haydn's special "line." He had already been employed on work of the kind for the collection of William Napier, to which he contributed the accompaniments of 150 songs. Later on, too (in 1802-1803), he harmonized and wrote accompaniments for sixty-five airs, for which he received 500 florins from Whyte of Edinburgh. The extent of his labours for George Thomson we shall now proceed to show.

Song Accompaniments

Thomson addressed his first letter to Haydn in October 1799. There is no copy of it, but there is a copy of a letter to Mr Straton, a friend of Thomson's, who was at this time Secretary to the Legation at Vienna. Straton was to deliver the letter to Haydn, and negotiate with him on Thomson's behalf. He was authorized to "say whatever you conceive is likely to produce compliance," and if necessary to "offer a few more ducats for each air." The only stipulation was that Haydn "must not speak of what he gets." Thomson does not expect that he will do the accompaniments better than Kozeluch—"that is scarcely possible"(!); but in the symphonies he will be "great and original." Thomson, as we now learn from Straton, had offered 2 ducats for each air (say 20s.); Haydn "seemed desirous of having rather more than 2 ducats, but did not precisely insist upon the point." Apparently he did not insist, for the next intimation of the correspondence is to the effect that thirty-two airs which he had just finished had been forwarded to Thomson on June 19, 1800. They would have been done sooner, says Straton, but "poor Haydn laboured under so severe an illness during the course of this spring that we were not altogether devoid of alarm in regard to his recovery." Thomson, thus encouraged, sent sixteen more airs; and Straton writes (April 30, 1801) that Haydn at first refused to touch them because the price paid was too low. But in the course of conversation Straton learnt that Haydn was writing to Thomson to ask him to procure a dozen India handkerchiefs, and it struck him that "your making him a present of them might mollify the veteran into compliance respecting the sixteen airs." Straton therefore took upon himself to promise in Thomson's name that the handkerchiefs would be forthcoming, and "this had the desired effect to such a degree that Haydn immediately put the sixteen airs in his pocket, and is to compose the accompaniments as soon as possible on the same terms as the former."

Mrs Jordan

The handkerchiefs duly arrived—"nice and large"—and Haydn made his acknowledgments in appropriate terms. At the same time (in January 1802) he wrote: "I send you with this the favourite air 'The Blue Bells of Scotland,' and I should like that this little air should be engraved all alone and dedicated in my name as a little complimentary gift to the renowned Mrs Jordan, whom, without having the honour of knowing, I esteem extremely for her great virtue and reputation." Mrs Jordan has been credited with the air of "The Blue Bells of Scotland." She certainly popularized the song, whether it was her own or not. In the note just quoted Haydn must have used the term "virtue" in the Italian sense.

A Hitch

After this a little hitch occurred in the Thomson correspondence. Haydn, being asked by Whyte, the publisher of a rival collection, to do something for his work, at once agreed. Thomson, not unnaturally, perhaps, felt hurt. He made his complaint through Mr Straton's successor at the Embassy, Mr Charles Stuart; and in August 1803 Stuart writes to say that he had broached the matter to Haydn "in as delicate terms as possible for fear he might take offence." Haydn frankly admitted that he had done the accompaniments for Whyte, but said the airs were different from those he had done for Thomson. After "a long conversation, he informed me," says Mr Stuart, "that being now seventy-four years of age and extremely infirm, he found himself wholly incapable of further application to study; that he must therefore beg leave to decline all offers, whether on your part or from any other person whatsoever. He even declared that notwithstanding the repeated requests of Prince Esterhazy, he felt himself utterly incapable of finishing several pieces of music he had undertaken, and being possessed of a competency he desired nothing so much as to pass the short time he has yet to live in repose and quiet." From this letter we learn that Thomson had unluckily sent a present of a handkerchief for Frau Haydn, who had now been dead for three years!

A "Previous" Letter of Condolence

In spite of the little misunderstanding just referred to Haydn was brought round once more, and on the 20th of December 1803 Thomson sends twenty-four airs, "which will most certainly be the last." Haydn's work delights him so much that he "really cannot bear the idea of seeking an inferior composer to finish a work already so nearly finished by you." He would pay 4 ducats for each air rather than have the mortification of a refusal. After this there is little of interest to note in the correspondence, unless it be a very "previous" letter of condolence which Thomson sent to Vienna. A false rumour had reached him that Haydn was dead. The following extract from a note which Haydn dictated to be sent to the friend who received Thomson's letter will explain the matter:

Kindly say to Mr Thomson that Haydn is very sensible of the distress that the news of his alleged death has caused him, and that this sign of affection has added, if that were possible, to the esteem and friendship he will always entertain for Mr Thomson. You will notice that he has put his name and the date on the sheet of music to give better proof that he is still on this nether world. He begs you at the same time to be kind enough to have Mr Thomson's letter of condolence copied and to send him the copy.

Haydn's experience in this way was perhaps unique. Burney says he was reported dead in 1778; and the false rumour which reached Thomson in 1805 led Cherubini to compose a sacred cantata for three voices and orchestra, which was duly performed in Paris when his death actually occurred.

Haydn furnished in all some 250 airs with symphonies and accompaniments for Thomson. In the packet of letters from the composer, docketed by Thomson himself, the latter has placed a slip of paper indicating the various payments he had made. According to this statement Haydn had 291 pounds, 18s. for his work from first to last—not by any means an insignificant sum to make out of a side branch of his art.

Eventide

This interesting correspondence takes us up to the year 1806, by which time Haydn's work was entirely over. His eventide, alas! was darkened by the clouds of war. The wave of the French Revolution had cast its bloody spray upon the surrounding nations, and 1805 saw the composer's beloved Vienna occupied by the French. Haydn was no politician, but love of country lay deep down in his heart, and he watched the course of events, from his little cottage, with the saddest forebodings.

The Last Public Appearance

Once only was he drawn from his seclusion. This was on the 27th of March 1808, when he appeared in public for the last time at a performance of "The Creation" at the University. The scene on this remarkable occasion has been described by many pens. Naumann, writing of it, says that "such an apotheosis of the master was witnessed as has but few parallels," and this is no exaggeration. The performance, which was under the direction of Salieri, had been arranged in honour of his approaching seventy-sixth birthday. All the great artists of Vienna were present, among them Beethoven and Hummel. Prince Esterhazy had sent his carriage to bring the veteran to the hall, and, as he was being conveyed in an arm-chair to a place among the princes and nobles, the whole audience rose to their feet in testimony of their regard. It was a cold night, and ladies sitting near swathed him in their costly wraps and lace shawls. The concert began, and the audience was hushed to silence. When that magnificent passage was reached, "And there was light," they burst into loud applause, and Haydn, overcome with excitement, exclaimed, "Not I, but a Power from above created that." The performance went on, but it proved too much for the old man, and friends arranged to take him home at the end of the first part. As he was being carried out, some of the highest of the land crowded round to take what was felt to be a last farewell; and Beethoven, forgetting incidents of early days, bent down and fervently kissed his hand and forehead. Having reached the door, Haydn asked his bearers to pause and turn him towards the orchestra. Then, lifting his hand, as if in the act of blessing, he was borne out into the night.

Next year Vienna was bombarded by the French, and a cannon-ball fell not far from Haydn's house. He was naturally much alarmed; but there is no ground for the statement, sometimes made, that his death was hastened by the fright. On the contrary, he called out to his servants, who were assisting him to dress: "Children, don't be frightened; no harm can happen to you while Haydn is here."

The End

But his days were numbered. "This miserable war has cast me down to the very ground," he would say, with tears in his eyes. And yet it was a French officer who last visited him on his death-bed, the city being then actually occupied by the enemy. The officer's name is not given, but he sang "In native worth" with such expression that Haydn was quite overcome, and embraced him warmly at parting. On May 26 he seems to have felt that his end was fast approaching. He gathered his household around him, and, being carried to the piano, at his own special request, played the Emperor's Hymn three times over, with an emotion that fairly overpowered himself and all who heard him. Five days later, on the 31st of May 1809, he breathed his last.

Funeral services were held in all the churches, and on June 15 Mozart's Requiem was given in his honour at the Scots Church, when several generals and administrators of the French army were present. Many poems were also written in his praise.

Haydn was buried as a private individual in the Hundsthurm Churchyard, which was just outside the lines, and close to the suburb of Gumpendorf, where he had lived. The grave remained entirely undistinguished till 1814—another instance of Vienna's neglect—when Haydn's pupil, Chevalier Neukomm, erected a stone bearing the following inscription, which contains a five-part canon for solution:

HAYDN

NATUS MDCCXXXIII. OBIIT MDCCCIX.

CAN. AENIGM. QUINQUE. VOC.

[figure: a musical score excerpt to the syllables non om - nis mo - ri - ar]

D. D. D.

Discp. Eius Neukom Vindob. Redux. Mdcccxiv.

Desecration of Haydn's Remains

In 1820 the remains were exhumed by order of Prince Esterhazy, and re-interred with fresh funeral honours in the Pilgrimage Church of Maria-Einsiedel, near Eisenstadt, on November 7. A simple stone, with a Latin inscription, is inserted in the wall over the vault. When the coffin was opened, the startling discovery was made that the skull had been stolen. The desecration took place two days after the funeral. It appears that one Johann Peter, intendant of the royal and imperial prisons of Vienna, conceived the grim idea of forming a collection of skulls, made, as he avowed in his will, to corroborate the theory of Dr Gall, the founder of phrenology. This functionary bribed the sexton, and—in concert with Prince Esterhazy's secretary Rosenbaum, and with two Government officials named Jungermann and Ullmann—he opened Haydn's grave and removed the skull. Peter afterwards gave the most minute details of the sacrilege. He declared that he examined the head and found the bump of music fully developed, and traces in the nose of the polypus from which Haydn suffered. The skull was placed in a lined box, and when Peter got into difficulties and his collection was dispersed, the relic passed into the possession of Rosenbaum. That worthy's conscience seems to have troubled him in the matter, for he conceived the idea of erecting a monument to the skull in his back garden! When the desecration was discovered in 1820 there was an outcry, followed by police search. Prince Esterhazy would stand no nonsense. The skull must be returned, no questions would be asked, and Peter was offered a reward if he found it. The notion then occurred to Rosenbaum of palming off another skull for Haydn's. This he actually succeeded in doing, the head of some unfortunate individual being handed to the police. Peter claimed the reward, which was very justly refused him. When Rosenbaum was dying he confessed to the deception, and gave the skull back to Peter. Peter formed the resolution of bequeathing it, by will, to the Conservatorium at Vienna; but he altered his mind before he died, and by codicil left the skull to Dr Haller, from whose keeping it ultimately found its way to the anatomical museum at Vienna. We believe it is still in the museum. Its proper place is, of course, in Haydn's grave, and a stigma will rest on Vienna until it is placed there.

[The great masters have been peculiarly unfortunate in the matter of their "remains." When Beethoven's grave was opened in 1863, Professor Wagner was actually allowed to cut off the ears and aural cavities of the corpse in order to investigate the cause of the dead man's deafness. The alleged skeleton of Sebastian Bach was taken to an anatomical museum a few years ago, "cleaned up," and clothed with a semblance of flesh to show how Bach looked in life! Donizetti's skull was stolen before the funeral, and was afterwards sold to a pork butcher, who used it as a money-bowl. Gluck was re-buried in 1890 beside Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert, after having lain in the little suburban churchyard of Matzleinsdorf since 1787.]

A copy of Haydn's will has been printed as one of the appendices to the present volume, with notes and all necessary information about the interesting document. Two years before his death he had arranged that his books, music, manuscripts and medals should become the property of the Esterhazy family. Among the relics were twenty-four canons which had hung, framed and glazed, in his bedroom. "I am not rich enough," he said, "to buy good pictures, so I have provided myself with hangings of a kind that few possess." These little compositions were the subject of an oft-quoted anecdote. His wife, in one of her peevish moods, was complaining that if he should die suddenly, there was not sufficient money in the house to bury him. "In case such a calamity should occur," he replied, "take these canons to the music-publisher. I will answer for it, that they will bring enough to pay for a decent funeral."



CHAPTER IX. HAYDN: THE MAN



Face and Features—Portraits—Social Habits—Partial to Pretty Women—His Letters—His Humour—His Generosity—Unspoiled by Success—His Piety—His Industry—Habits of Composition—Impatient of Pedantry.

Face and Features

Something of Haydn's person and character will have already been gathered from the foregoing pages. He considered himself an ugly man, and, in Addison's words, thought that the best expedient was "to be pleasant upon himself." His face was deeply pitted with small-pox, and the nose, large and aquiline, was disfigured by the polypus which he had inherited from his mother. In complexion he was so dark as to have earned in some quarters the familiar nickname of "The Moor." His underlip was thick and hanging, his jaw massive. "The mouth and chin are Philistine," wrote Lavater under his silhouette, noting, at the same time, "something out of the common in the eyes and the nose." The eyes were dark gray. They are described as "beaming with benevolence," and he used to say himself: "Anyone can see by the look of me that I am a good-natured sort of fellow."

In stature he was rather under the middle height, with legs disproportionately short, a defect rendered more noticeable by the style of his dress, which he refused to change with the changes of fashion. Dies writes: "His features were regular, his expression animated, yet, at the same time, temperate, gentle and attractive. His face wore a stern look when in repose, but in conversation it was smiling and cheerful. I never heard him laugh out loud. His build was substantial, but deficient in muscle." Another of his acquaintances says that "notwithstanding a cast of physiognomy rather morose, and a short way of expressing himself, which seemed to indicate an ill-tempered man, the character of Haydn was gay, open and humorous." From these testimonies we get the impression of a rather unusual combination of the attractive and the repulsive, the intellectual and the vulgar. What Lavater described as the "lofty and good" brow was partly concealed by a wig, with side curls, and a pig-tail, which he wore to the last. His dress as a private individual has not been described in detail, but the Esterhazy uniform, though frequently changing in colour and style, showed him in knee-breeches, white stockings, lace ruffles and white neckcloth. This uniform he never wore except when on actual duty.

Portraits

After his death there were many portraits in chalks, engraved, and modeled in wax. Notwithstanding his admission of the lack of personal graces, he had a sort of feminine objection to an artist making him look old. We read that, in 1800, he was "seriously angry" with a painter who had represented him as he then appeared. "If I was Haydn at forty," said he, "why should you transmit to posterity a Haydn of seventy-eight?" Several writers mention a portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and even give details of the sittings, but he never sat to Reynolds, whose eyesight had begun to fail before Haydn's arrival in England. During his first visit to London Hoppner painted his portrait at the special request of the Prince of Wales. This portrait was engraved by Facius in 1807, and is now at Hampton Court. Engravings were also published in London by Schiavonetti and Bartolozzi from portraits by Guttenbrunn and Ott, and by Hardy from his own oil-painting. A silhouette, which hung for long at the head of his bed, was engraved for the first time for Grove's Dictionary of Music. This was said by Elssler, his old servant, to have been a striking likeness. Of the many busts, the best is that by his friend Grassi, the sculptor.

[figure: Haydn's silhouette by Lavater]

Social Habits

Very little has been recorded of his social habits. Anything like excess in wine is not once mentioned; but it is easy to see from his correspondence that he enjoyed a good dinner, and was not insensible to creature comforts. Writing to Artaria from Esterhaz in 1788, he says: "By-the-bye, I am very much obliged to you for the capital cheese you sent me, and also the sausages, for which I am your debtor, but shall not fail when an opportunity offers to return the obligation." In a subsequent letter to Frau von Genzinger he comically laments the change from Vienna to Esterhaz: "I lost twenty pounds in weight in three days, for the effect of my fare at Vienna disappeared on the journey. 'Alas! alas!' thought I, when driven to eat at the restaurateurs, 'instead of capital beef, a slice of a cow fifty years old; instead of a ragout with little balls of force-meat, an old sheep with yellow carrots; instead of a Bohemian pheasant, a tough grill; instead of pastry, dry apple fritters and hazelnuts, etc.! Alas! alas! would that I now had many a morsel I despised in Vienna! Here in Esterhaz no one asks me, Would you like some chocolate, with milk or without? Will you take some coffee, with or without cream? What can I offer you, my good Haydn? Will you have vanille ice or pineapple?' If I had only a piece of good Parmesan cheese, particularly in Lent, to enable me to swallow more easily the black dumplings and puffs! I gave our porter this very day a commission to send me a couple of pounds." Even amid the social pleasures and excitements of London, where he was invited out six times a week and had "four excellent dishes" at every dinner, he longs to be back in his native land so that he may have "some good German soup."

Partial to Pretty Women

We read that in Austria he "never associated with any but the musicians, his colleagues," a statement which cannot be strictly true. In London he was, as we have seen, something of a "lion," but it is doubtful if he enjoyed the conventional diversions of the beau monde. Yet he liked the company of ladies, especially when they were personally attractive. That he was never at a loss for a compliment may perhaps be taken as explaining his frequent conquests, for, as he frankly said himself, the pretty women "were at any rate not tempted by my beauty." Of children he was passionately fond, a fact which lends additional melancholy to his own unhappy and childless home life.

His Letters

He was not highly educated, and he does not seem to have taken much interest in anything outside his own profession. This much may be gathered from his correspondence, upon which it is not necessary to comment at length. Mr Russell Lowell remarks that a letter which is not mainly about the writer loses its prime flavour. Haydn's letters are seldom "mainly about the writer." They help us very little in seeking to get at what Newman called "the inside of things," though some, notably those given at the end of this volume, embody valuable suggestions. He habitually spoke in the broad dialect of his native place. He knew Italian well and French a little, and he had enough Latin to enable him to set the Church services. Of English he was almost entirely ignorant until he came to London in 1791, when we hear of him walking the country lanes with an English grammar in hand. There is an amusing story of a dinner at Madame Mara's, at which he was present during his first visit. Crossdill, the violoncellist, proposed to celebrate him with "three times three." The suggestion was at once adopted, all the guests, with the exception of Haydn himself, standing up and cheering lustily. Haydn heard his name repeated, but not understanding what was going on, stared at the company in blank bewilderment. When the matter was explained to him he appeared quite overcome with diffidence, putting his hands before his face and not recovering his equanimity for some minutes. [See Records of My Life, by John Taylor: London, 1832.]

His Humour

Of hobbies or recreations he appears to have had none, though, to relieve the dull monotony of life at Eisenstadt or Esterhaz, he occasionally indulged in hunting and fishing and mountain rambles. A leading trait in his character was his humour and love of fun. As he remarked to Dies: "A mischievous fit comes over me sometimes that is perfectly beyond control." The incident of the removal of the fellow chorister's pig-tail will at once recur to the memory. The "Surprise" Symphony is another illustration, to say nothing of the "Toy" Symphony and "Jacob's Dream."

His Generosity

Of his generosity and his kindness to fellow artists there are many proofs. In 1800 he speaks of himself as having "willingly endeavoured all my life to assist everyone," and the words were no empty boast. No man was, in fact, more ready to perform a good deed. He had many needy relations always looking to him for aid, and their claims were seldom refused. A brother artist in distress was sure of help, and talented young men found in him a valuable friend, equally ready to give his advice or his gold, as the case might require. That he was sometimes imposed upon goes without saying. He has been charged with avarice, but the charge is wholly unfounded. He was simply careful in money matters, and that, to a large extent, because of the demands that were constantly being made upon him. In commercial concerns he was certainly sharp and shrewd, and attempts to take advantage of him always roused his indignation. "By heavens!" he writes to Artaria, "you have wronged me to the extent of fifty ducats.... This step must cause the cessation of all transactions between us." The same firm, having neglected to answer some business proposition, were pulled up in this fashion: "I have been much provoked by the delay, inasmuch as I could have got forty ducats from another publisher for these five pieces, and you make too many difficulties about a matter by which, in such short compositions, you have at least a thirty fold profit. The sixth piece has long had its companion, so pray make an end of the affair and send me either my music or my money."

The Haydn of these fierce little notes is not the gentle recluse we are apt to imagine him. They show, on the contrary, that he was not wanting in spirit when occasion demanded. He was himself upright and honest in all his dealings. And he never forgot a kindness, as more than one entry in his will abundantly testifies. He was absolutely without malice, and there are several instances of his repaying a slight with a generous deed or a thoughtful action. His practical tribute to the memory of Werner, who called him a fop and a "scribbler of songs," has been cited. His forbearance with Pleyel, who had allowed himself to be pitted against him by the London faction, should also be recalled; and it is perhaps worth mentioning further that he put himself to some trouble to get a passport for Pleyel during the long wars of the French Revolution. He carried his kindliness and gentleness even into "the troubled region of artistic life," and made friends where other men would have made foes.

Unspoiled by Success

His modesty has often been insisted upon. Success did not spoil him. In a letter of 1799 he asks that a certain statement in his favour should not be mentioned, lest he "be accused of conceit and arrogance, from which my Heavenly Father has preserved me all my life long." Here he spoke the simple truth. At the same time, while entirely free from presumption and vanity, he was perfectly alive to his own merits, and liked to have them acknowledged. When visitors came to see him nothing gave him greater pleasure than to open his cabinets and show the medals, that had been struck in his honour, along with the other gifts he had received from admirers. Like a true man of genius, as Pohl says, he enjoyed distinction and fame, but carefully avoided ambition.

High Ideals

Of his calling and opportunities as an artist he had a very high idea. Acknowledging a compliment paid to him in 1802 by the members of the Musical Union in Bergen, he wrote of the happiness it gave him to think of so many families susceptible of true feeling deriving pleasure and enjoyment from his compositions.

"Often when contending with the obstacles of every sort opposed to my work, often when my powers both of body and mind failed, and I felt it a hard matter to persevere in the course I had entered on, a secret feeling within me whispered, 'There are but few contented and happy men here below; everywhere grief and care prevail, perhaps your labours may one day be the source from which the weary and worn or the man burdened with affairs may derive a few moments' rest and refreshment.' What a powerful motive to press onwards! And this is why I now look back with heartfelt, cheerful satisfaction on the work to which I have devoted such a long succession of years with such persevering efforts and exertions."

With this high ideal was combined a constant effort to perfect himself in his art. To Kalkbrenner he once made the touching remark: "I have only just learned in my old age how to use the wind instruments, and now that I do understand them I must leave the world." To Griezinger, again, he said that he had by no means exhausted his genius: that "ideas were often floating in his mind, by which he could have carried the art far beyond anything it had yet attained, had his physical powers been equal to the task."

His Piety

Closely, indeed inseparably, connected with this exalted idea of his art was his simple and sincere piety. He was a devout Christian, and looked upon his genius as a gift from God, to be freely used in His service. His faith was never assailed with doubts; he lived and died in the communion of the Catholic Church, and was "never in danger of becoming either a bigot or a free-thinker." When Carpani, anticipating latter-day criticism, hinted to him that his Church compositions were impregnated with a light gaiety, he replied: "I cannot help it; I give forth what is in me. When I think of the Divine Being, my heart is, so full of joy that the notes fly off as from a spindle, and as I have a cheerful heart He will pardon me if I serve Him cheerfully."

His reverent practice during the composition of "The Creation" has been mentioned. "Never was I so pious," he said. There are many proofs of the same feeling in his correspondence and other writings. Thus he concludes an autobiographical sketch with the words: "I offer up to Almighty God all eulogiums, for to Him alone do I owe them. My sole wish is neither to offend against my neighbour nor my gracious prince, but above all not against our merciful God." Again, in one of his later letters, he says "May God only vouchsafe to grant me the health that I have hitherto enjoyed, and may I preserve it by good conduct, out of gratitude to the Almighty." The note appended to the first draft of his will is also significant. Nor in this connection should we forget the words with which he inscribed the scores of his more important compositions. For the conclusion he generally adopted Handel's "Soli Deo Gloria" or "Laus Deo," with the occasional addition of "et B.V. Mae. et Oms. Sis. (Beatae Virgini Mariae et Omnibus Sanctis)." Even his opera scores were so inscribed, one indeed having the emphatic close: "Laus omnipotenti Deo et Beatissimae Virgini Mariae." The superscription was uniformly "In nomine Domini." It is recorded somewhere that when, in composing, he felt his inspiration flagging, or was baulked by some difficulty, he rose from the instrument and began to run over his rosary. In short, not to labour the point, he had himself followed the advice which, as an old man, he gave to the choirboys of Vienna: "Be good and industrious and serve God continually."

His Industry

The world has seen many an instance of genius without industry, as of industry without genius. In Haydn the two were happily wedded. He was always an early riser, and long after his student days were over he worked steadily from sixteen to eighteen hours a day. He lived strictly by a self-imposed routine, and was so little addicted to what Scott called "bed-gown and slipper tricks," that he never sat down to work or received a visitor until he was fully dressed. He had none of Wagner's luxurious tastes or Balzac's affectations in regard to a special attire for work, but when engaged on his more important compositions he always wore the ring given him by the King of Prussia. In Haydn's case there are no incredible tales of dashing off scores in the twinkling of an eye. That he produced so much must be attributed to his habit of devoting all his leisure to composition. He was not a rapid worker if we compare him with Handel and Mozart. He never put down anything till he was "quite sure it was the right thing"—a habit of mind indicated by his neat and uniform handwriting ["His notes had such little heads and slender tails that he used, very properly, to call them his, flies' legs."—Bombet, p. 97.]—and he assures us: "I never was a quick writer, and always composed with care and deliberation. That alone," he added, "is the way to compose works that will last, and a real connoisseur can see at a glance whether a score has been written in undue haste or not." He is quoted as saying that "genius is always prolific." However the saying may be interpreted, there does not seem to have been about him anything of what has been called the irregular dishabille of composers, "the natural result of the habit of genius of watching for an inspiration, and encouraging it to take possession of the whole being when it comes."

Habits of Composition

His practice was to sketch out his ideas roughly in the morning, and elaborate them in the afternoon, taking pains to preserve unity in idea and form. "That is where so many young composers fail," he said in reference to the latter point. "They string together a number of fragments; they break off almost as soon as they have begun, and so at the end the listener carries off no definite impression." The importance of melody he specially emphasized. "It is the air which is the charm of music," he remarked, "and it is that which is most difficult to produce. The invention of a fine melody is the work of genius." In another place he says: "In vocal composition, the art of producing beautiful melody may now almost be considered as lost; and when a composer is so fortunate as to throw forth a passage that is really melodious, he is sure, if he be not sensible of its excellence, to overwhelm and destroy it by the fullness and superfluity of his instrumental parts." [Compare Mozart's words as addressed to Michael Kelly: "Melody is the essence of music. I should liken one who invents melodies to a noble racehorse, and a mere contrapuntist to a hired post-hack."]

He is stated to have always composed with the aid of the pianoforte or harpsichord; and indeed we find him writing to Artaria in 1788 to say that he has been obliged to buy a new instrument "that I might compose your clavier sonatas particularly well." This habit of working out ideas with the assistance of the piano has been condemned by most theorists as being likely to lead to fragmentariness. With Haydn at any rate the result was entirely satisfactory, for, as Sir Hubert Parry points out, the neatness and compactness of his works is perfect. It is very likely, as Sir Hubert says, that most modern composers have used the pianoforte a good deal—not so much to help them to find out their ideas, as to test the details and intensify their musical sensibility by the excitant sounds, the actual sensual impression of which is, of course, an essential element in all music. The composer can always hear such things in his mind, but obviously the music in such an abstract form can never have quite as much effect upon him as when the sounds really strike upon his ear. [See Studies of Great Composers, by C. Hubert H. Parry, p. 109.]

No Pedant

Like all the really great composers, Haydn was no pedant in the matter of theoretical formulae, though he admitted that the rigid rules of harmony should rarely be violated, and "never without the compensation of some inspired effect." When he was asked according to what rule he had introduced a certain progression, he replied "The rules are all my very obedient humble servants." With the quint-hunters and other faddists who would place their shackles on the wrists of genius, he had as little patience as Beethoven, who, when told that all the authorities forbade the consecutive fifths in his C Minor Quartet, thundered out: "Well, I allow them." Somebody once questioned him about an apparently unwarranted passage in the introduction to Mozart's Quartet in C Major. "If Mozart has written it, be sure he had good reasons for doing so," was the conclusive reply. That fine old smoke-dried pedant, Albrechtsberger, declared against consecutive fourths in strict composition, and said so to Haydn. "What is the good of such rules?" demanded Haydn. "Art is free and must not be fettered by mechanical regulations. The cultivated ear must decide, and I believe myself as capable as anyone of making laws in this respect. Such trifling is absurd; I wish instead that someone would try to compose a really new minuet." To Dies he remarked further: "Supposing an idea struck me as good and thoroughly satisfactory both to the ear and the heart, I would far rather pass over some slight grammatical error than sacrifice what seemed to me beautiful to any mere pedantic trifling." These were sensible views. Practice must always precede theory. When we find a great composer infringing some rule of the old text-books, there is, to say the least, a strong presumption, not that the composer is wrong, but that the rule needs modifying. The great composer goes first and invents new effects: it is the business of the theorist not to cavil at every novelty, but to follow modestly behind and make his rules conform to the practice of the master. [Compare Professor Prout's Treatise on Harmony.]