JOSEPH HAYDN
While the parrot’s screams had rendered the mistress and her maid so
uneasy, the most profound stillness and quiet reigned in the upper rooms
of the little house. Not a sound interrupted the silence of this small,
elegantly-furnished sitting-room. Even the sun apparently dared only to
send a few stealthy beams through the windows, and the wind seemed to
hold its breath in order not to shake the panes of the small chamber
adjoining, venerated by all the inmates of the house as a sacred temple
of art.
In this small chamber, in this temple of art, a gentleman, apparently
engaged in reading, was seated at a table covered with papers and
music-books, close to an open piano. He was no longer young; on the
contrary, beholding only the thin white hair hanging down on his
expansive and wrinkled forehead, and his stooping form, it became
evident that he was an old man, nearly seventy years of age. But as soon
as he raised his eyes from the paper, as soon as he turned them toward
heaven with an air of blissful enthusiasm, the fire of eternal youth and
radiant joyousness burst forth from those eyes; and whatever the white
hair, the wrinkled forehead, the furrowed cheeks and the stooping
form might tell of the long years of his life, those eyes were full of
youthful ardor and strength--only the body of this white haired man was
old; in his soul he had remained young--a youth of fervid imagination,
procreative power, and nervous activity.
This venerable man with the soul, the heart, and the eyes of a youth,
was Joseph Haydn, the great composer, whose glory, even at that time,
filled the whole world, although he had not yet written his greatest
masterpieces--the “Creation” and the “Seasons.”
He was working to-day at the “Creation.” [Footnote: Haydn commenced the
“Creation” in 1797, and finished it in April, 1798.] The poem, which had
been sent to him from England, and which his worthy friend Von Swieten
had translated into German, lay before him. He had read it again and
again, and gradually it seemed as if the words were transformed into
music; gradually he heard whispering--low at first, then louder, and
more sublime and majestic--the jubilant choirs of heaven and earth, that
were to resound in his “Creation.”
As yet he had not written a single note; he had only read the poem, and
composed in reading, and inwardly weighed and tried the sublime melodies
which, when reduced to time and measure, and combined into an harmonious
whole, were to form the new immortal work of his genius. While thus
reading and composing, the aged musician was transformed more and more
into a youth, and the glowing enthusiasm which burst forth from his eyes
became every moment more radiant, surrounding his massive forehead with
a halo of inspiration, and shedding the purple lustre of ecstatic joy
upon his furrowed cheeks.
“Yes, yes, it will do. I shall succeed!” he exclaimed suddenly, in a
loud and full voice. “God will give me the strength to complete this
work; but it must be commenced with Him--strength and inspiration come
from Him alone!”
And Joseph Haydn, perhaps not quite conscious of what he was doing,
knelt down and with folded hands, and beaming eyes lifted up to heaven,
he prayed: “O, Lord God, give me Thy blessing and Thy strength, that I
may gloriously and successfully carry out this work, which praiseth
Thee and Thy creation. Breathe Thy Holy Spirit into the words which Thou
speakest in my work. Speak through me to Thy creatures, and let my music
be Thy language!”
He paused, but remaining on his knees, continued to look up to heaven.
Then he rose slowly, and like a seer or a somnambulist, with eyes opened
but seeing nothing, he went to his piano without knowing what he was
doing. He sat down on the stool, and did not know it; his hands touched
the keys and drew magnificent chords from them, and he did not hear
them. He only heard the thousands of seraphic voices which in his breast
chanted sublime anthems; he only heard the praise of his own winged
soul which, in divine ecstasy, soared far into the realm of eternal
harmonies.
Louder and louder rolled the music he drew from the keys; now it burst
forth into a tremendous jubilee, then again it died away in melancholy
complaints and gentle whispers, and again it broke out into a swelling,
thundering anthem.
At length Haydn concluded with a sonorous and brilliant passage, and
then with youthful agility jumped up from his seat.
“That was the prelude,” he said, aloud, “and now we will go to work.”
He hastily threw the white and comfortable dressing-gown from his
shoulders and rapidly walked toward the looking-glass which hung over
the bureau. Every thing was ready for his toilet, the footman having
carefully arranged the whole. He put the cravat with lace trimmings
around his neck and arranged the tie before the looking-glass in
the most artistic manner; then he slipped into the long waistcoat of
silver-lined velvet, and finally put on the long-tailed brown coat with
bright metal buttons. He was just going to put the heavy silver watch,
which his wife had given him on their wedding-day, into his vest-pocket,
when his eye fell upon the blue ribbon embroidered with silver, which,
ever since his visit to the imperial palace, had lain on the bureau.
“I will wear it on this holiday of mine,” said Haydn, with great warmth,
“for I think the day on which a new work is begun is a holiday, and we
ought to wear our choicest ornaments to celebrate it.”
He attached the ribbon to his watch, threw it over his neck, and slipped
the watch into his vest-pocket.
“If that beautiful Mrs. Shaw could see me now,” he whispered, almost
inaudibly, “how her magnificent eyes would sparkle, and what a heavenly
smile would animate her angelic features! Yes, yes, I will remember her
smile--it shall find an echo in the jubilant accords of my Creation. But
let us begin--let us begin!”
He rapidly walked toward his desk, but stopped suddenly. “Hold on!” said
he; “I really forgot the most important thing--my ring. While looking at
the precious ribbon of my beautiful English friend, I did not think of
the ring of my great king--and still it is the talisman without which I
cannot work at all.”
Returning once, more to the bureau, he opened a small case and took
from it a ring which he put on his finger. He contemplated the large and
brilliant diamonds of the ring with undisguised admiration.
“Yes,” he exclaimed--“yes, thou art my talisman, and when I look at
thee, it seems to me as if I saw the eyes of the great king beaming down
upon me, and pouring courage and enthusiasm into my heart. That is the
reason, too, why I cannot work unless I have the ring on my finger.
[Footnote: Haydn had dedicated six quartets to Frederick the Great,
who acknowledged the compliment by sending him a valuable diamond ring.
Haydn wore this ring whenever he composed a new work, and it seemed to
him as though inspiration failed him unless he wore the ring. He
stated this on many occasions.] But now I am ready and adorned like a
bridegroom who is going to his young bride. Yes, yes, it is just so with
me. I am going to my bride--to St. Cecilia!”
When he now returned to his desk, his features assumed a grave and
solemn expression. He sat down once more at the piano and played
an anthem, then he resumed his seat at the desk, took a sheet of
music-paper and commenced writing. He wielded his pen with the utmost
rapidity, and covered page after page with the queer little dots and
dashes which we call notes.
And Haydn’s eyes flashed and his cheeks glowed, and a heavenly smile
played on his lips while he was writing. But all of a sudden his pen
stopped, and a slight cloud settled on his brow. Some passage, may be
a modulation, had displeased him, in what he had just composed, for he
glanced over the last few lines and shook his head. He looked down sadly
and dropped the pen.
“Help me, O Lord God--help me!” he exclaimed, and hastily seized the
rosary which always lay on his desk, “Help me!” he muttered once more,
and, while hurriedly pacing the room, he slipped the beads of the rosary
through his fingers and whispered an Ave Maria.
His prayer seemed to have the desired effect, for the cloud disappeared
from his forehead, and his eyes beamed again with the fervor of
inspiration. He resumed his seat and wrote on with renewed energy. A
holy peace now settled on his serene features, and reigned around him in
the silent little cabinet.
But all at once this peaceful stillness was interrupted by a loud noise
resounding from below. Vociferous lamentations were heard, and heavy
footsteps ascended the staircase.
Haydn, however, did not hear any thing--his genius was soaring far away
in the realm of inspiration, and divine harmonies still enchanted his
ears.
But now the door of the small parlor was opened violently, and his wife,
with a face deadly pale and depicting the liveliest anxiety, rushed into
the room. Catharine and Conrad, the aged footman, appeared behind her,
while the cat slipped in with her mistress, and the parrot ejaculated
the most frantic and piercing screams.
Haydn started in dismay from his seat and stared at his wife without
being able to utter a single word. It was something unheard of for him
to be disturbed by his wife during his working hours, hence he very
naturally concluded that something unusual, something really terrible
must have occurred, and the frightened looks of his wife, the pale faces
of his servants, plainly told him that he was not mistaken.
“Oh, husband--poor, dear husband!” wailed his wife, “pack up your
papers, the time for working and composing is past. Conrad has brought
the most dreadful tidings from the city. We are all lost!--Vienna is
lost! Oh, dear, dear! it is awful, and I tell you I am almost frightened
out of my senses!”
And the old lady, trembling like an aspen-leaf, threw herself into an
arm-chair.
“What in Heaven’s name is the matter?” asked Haydn--“what is it that has
frightened you thus? Conrad, tell me what is the news?”
“Oh, my dear master,” wailed Conrad, approaching the doctor with folded
hands and shaking knees, “it is all up with us! Austria is lost--Vienna
is lost--and consequently we are lost, too! Late dispatches have arrived
from the army. Ah! what do I say?--army? We have no longer an army--our
forces are entirely dispersed--Archduke Charles has lost another
battle--old Wurmser has been driven back--and General Bonaparte is
advancing upon Vienna.”
“These are sad tidings, indeed,” said Haydn, shrugging his shoulders,
“still they are no reason why we should despair. If the archduke has
lost a battle--why, all generals have lost battles--”
“Bonaparte never lost one,” replied Conrad, with a profound sigh, “he
wins every battle, and devours all countries he wants to conquer.”
“We must pack up our things, Joseph,” said Mrs. Haydn--“we must bury
our money, our plate, and especially your jewels and trinkets, so that
those French robbers and cannibals will not find them. Come, husband,
let us go to work quickly, before they come and take every thing from
us.”
“Hush, wife, hush!” said Haydn, mildly, and a gentle smile overspread
his features. “Never fear about our few trifles, and do not think that
the French just want to come to Vienna for what few gold snuff-boxes and
rings I have got. If they were anxious for gold and jewels, coming as
they do as enemies, they might simply open the imperial treasury and
take there all they want.”
“Yes, but they would not find any thing,” said Conrad. “The treasury
is empty, doctor, entirely empty. Every thing is gone; there is not a
single crown, not a single precious stone left in the treasury.”
“Well, and where is the whole treasure then, you fool?” asked Haydn,
with a smile.
“They have taken it to Presburg, master. I saw the wagons
myself--soldiers rode in front of them, soldiers behind them. All
streets, all places were crowded with people, and a riot broke out,
and oh! such lamentations, such wails!--and finally the people became
desperate, and roared and yelled that the government should make peace,
and prevent the French from corning to Vienna and bombarding the city;
and in their desperation they grew quite bold and brave, and thousands
of them marched to the house of Minister Thugut, whom they call the real
emperor of Vienna, and tried to compel him to make peace.”
“Sad, sad tidings, indeed!” sighed Haydn, shaking his head. “Worse than
I thought. The people riotous and rebellious--the army defeated--and
the enemy marching upon Vienna. But don’t despair--courage, courage,
children; let us put our trust in God and our excellent emperor. Those
two will never forsake us--they will guard and protect Vienna, and never
suffer a single stone to be taken from its walls.”
“Ah, husband, don’t count any longer upon the emperor,” said his wife.
“For that is the worst part of the news, and shows that every thing is
lost: the emperor has left Vienna.”
“What!” exclaimed Haydn, and his face grew flushed with anger. “What,
they dare to slander the emperor so infamously as that! They dare to
assert that the emperor has forsaken his Viennese when they are in
danger? No, no, the emperor is an honest man and a faithful prince; he
will share good and evil days alike with his people. A good shepherd
does not leave his flock, a good prince does not leave his people.”
“But the emperor has forsaken us,” said Conrad; “it is but too true,
master. All Vienna knows it, and all Vienna mourns over it. The emperor
is gone, and so are the empress and the imperial children. All are gone
and off for Presburg.”
“Gone! the emperor gone!” muttered Haydn, mournfully, and a deadly
paleness suddenly covered his cheeks. “Oh, poor Austria! poor people!
Thy emperor has forsaken thee--he has fled from thee!”
He sadly inclined his head, and profound sighs escaped from his breast.
“Do you see now, husband, that I was right?” asked his wife. “Is it not
true that it is high time for us to think of our property, and to pack
up and bury our valuables?”
“No!” exclaimed Haydn, raising his head again; “this is no time to think
of ourselves, and of taking care of our miserable property. The emperor
has left--that means, the emperor is in danger; and therefore, as his
faithful subjects, we should pray for him, and all our thoughts and
wishes should only be devoted to his welfare. In the hour of danger we
should not be faint-hearted, and bow our heads, but lift them up to
God, and hope and trust in Him! Why do the people of Vienna lament and
despair? They should sing and pray, so that the Lord God above may hear
their voices--they should sing and pray, and I will teach them how!”
And with proud steps Haydn went to the piano, and his hands began to
play gently, at first, a simple and choral-like air; but soon the
melody grew stronger and more impressive. Haydn’s face became radiant;
instinctively opening his lips, he sang in an enthusiastic and ringing
voice words which he had never known before--words which, with the
melody, had spontaneously gushed from his soul. What his lips sang was
a prayer, and, at the same time, a hymn of victory--full of innocent and
child-like piety:
“Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser,
Unsern guten Kaiser Franz,
Lange lebe Franz den Kaiser
In des Gluckes hellem Glanz!
Ihm erbluhen Lorbeerreiser,
Wo er geht, zum Ehrenkranz!
Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser,
Unsern guten Kaiser Franz!”
[Footnote: The celebrated Austrian hymn, “God save the Emperor
Francis.”]
Profound silence prevailed while Haydn was singing, and when he
concluded with a firm and ringing accord and turned around, he saw that
his wife, overcome with emotion, with folded hands and eyes lifted up
to heaven, had sunk down on her knees, and that old Catharine and Conrad
were kneeling behind her, while the cat stood between them listening to
the music as it were, and even the parrot below seemed to listen to the
new hymn, for its screams had ceased.
A smile of delight played on Haydn’s lips and rendered his face again
young and beautiful. “Now, sing with me, all three of you,” he said.
“Sing loudly and firmly, that God may hear us. I will commence again at
the beginning, and you shall accompany me.”
He touched the keys vigorously, and sang once more, “God save the
Emperor Francis!” and carried away by the melody so simple and yet so
beautiful, the two women and the old footman sang with him the tender
and artless words.
“And now,” said Haydn, eagerly, “now, I will write down the melody on
the spot, and then you shall run with it to Councillor von Swieten. He
must add a few verses to it. And then we will have it copied as often as
possible--we will circulate it in the streets, and sing it in all public
places, and if the French really should come to Vienna, the whole
people shall receive them with the jubilant hymn, ‘God save the Emperor
Francis!’ And God will hear our song, and He will be touched by our
love, and He will lead him back to us, our good Emperor Francis.”
He sat down at his desk, and in youthful haste wrote down the music.
“So,” he said then, “take it, Conrad, take it to Herr von Swieten;
tell him it is my imperial hymn. Oh, I believe it will be useful to the
emperor, and therefore I swear that I will play it every day as long
as I live. My first prayer always shall be for the emperor.” [Footnote:
Haydn kept his word, and from that time played the hymn every day. It
was even the last piece of music he performed before his death. On the
26th of May, 1809, he played the hymn three times in succession. From
the piano he had to be carried to his bed, which he never left again.
When Iffland paid him a visit in 1807, Haydn played the hymn for him. He
then remained a few moments before the instrument--placed his hands on
it, and said, in the tone of a venerable patriarch: “I play this hymn
every morning, and in times of adversity have often derived consolation
and courage from it. I cannot help it--I must play it at least once
a day. I feel greatly at ease whenever I do so, and even a good while
afterward.”--“Iffland’s Theatrical Almanac for 1855,” p. 181.]
“And now run, Conrad, and ask Herr von Swieten to finish the poem
quickly, and you, women, leave me. I feel the ideas burning in my head,
and the melodies gushing from my heart. The hymn has inspired me with
genuine enthusiasm; and now, with God and my emperor, I will commence my
Creation! But you, you must not despair--and whenever you feel dejected,
sing my imperial hymn, and pour consolation and courage into your
hearts--into the hearts of all Austrians who will sing it. For not only
for you, but for Austria, I have sung my hymn, and it shall belong to
the whole Austrian people!”