died, and the event marked a further advancement in the composer's
fortunes. Prince Nicolaus, who succeeded his brother, was a passionate
lover of the arts and sciences, in addition to being one of the most
generous and warm-hearted of men. His succession implied an added
magnificence and pomp to what seemed already perfect. To Haydn he gave
an assurance of his good-will and appreciation by raising his salary
from four hundred to six hundred florins, and, later, to seven hundred
and eighty-two florins (or £78), allowed him to select additional
musicians, and at the same time gave him to understand that he should
look for an increase in the number of performances. The Prince himself
played the baryton, or viola di bardone--a stringed instrument of
sweet, resonant tone, which, like the viol da gamba, to which it bore
some resemblance, has long since ceased to be heard. As the Prince
prided himself on his playing, Haydn was required to produce endless
pieces for the instrument, and he was even at considerable pains to
acquire a knowledge of the baryton itself, thinking thereby to afford
his master pleasure. To his chagrin, however, he discovered that his
efforts in this direction were not at all appreciated by the royal
performer, who had no fancy to see himself outskilled.
In 1766 Werner died, and Haydn succeeded to the full title. He had
thus reached the summit of his boyish ambition, and could look back
with pride to those early days when he studied the 'Complete
Chapel-master' in his lonely garret, and longed for the day to come
when his father's dream might be realised. And what of the parents
whom he had left behind in the little village? How had they fared
during these long years of struggle and success? The mother died seven
years before Haydn received his appointment to the Esterhazy family,
and while he was still striving to make his way; and the pleasure
which success had brought to him must have been tinged with the regret
that she had not lived to witness it. Mathias had married again, but
he managed to find his way to Eisenstadt, where, to his pride and joy,
he heard Joseph addressed as 'Herr Capellmeister!' Thither, also, came
Michael, who had been appointed director and concertmeister to
Archbishop Sigismund of Salzburg, to spend several happy days with his
elder brother.
Haydn's fame as a composer had spread far beyond the walls of
Eisenstadt. Musicians of Leipzig, Paris, Amsterdam, and even London,
were playing his symphonies, trios, and quartets, whilst the _Wiener
Diarium_--the Austrian official gazette--for 1766 refers to him as
'the favourite of our nation,' and pays him the high compliment of
comparing him with Gellert, the most esteemed poet of the day. 'What
Gellert is to poetry Haydn is to music,' writes the critic.
Werner's death was shortly followed by an event which implied a still
greater change in Haydn's surroundings. Prince Nicolaus had been
engaged in carrying out a scheme for the rebuilding of his
shooting-box near Süttör on a scale of magnificence rivalling that of
Versailles in its palmiest days, and, the works being completed, the
Prince moved thither with the major portion of his household. No more
lonely spot or one more unhealthy in its natural state, could have
been chosen than that which formed the site of the new residence.
Standing in the middle of a salt marsh, forming the southern extremity
of the great lake called the Neusiedler-See, Esterház, as the palace
was named, was quite cut off from the outside world. The work of
draining and reclaiming the land, however, had effected such an
improvement that what in its primitive condition had been little
better than desolate swamp, resounding to the harsh cries of
wild-fowl, was now become a scene of veritable enchantment. The thick
wood which lay behind the house had been transformed into shady groves
and open glades for deer, whilst the front windows of the palace
looked upon extensive flower-gardens, with a profusion of hothouses,
summerhouses, arbours, and temples. The castle itself comprised a
hundred and sixty-two apartments, splendidly decorated, and filled
with costly collections of art. Even Eisenstadt itself paled before
the beauty and magnificence of this new palace of Aladdin which the
genie of wealth had raised on the dismal marsh.
The provision for music and acting was on a scale as elaborate as that
of the rest of the palace. A splendid theatre, designed and equipped
for the performance of operas and dramatic works, had been reared near
the castle, and beside this stood a smaller theatre, fitted up for the
marionette performances, to the perfecting of which the Prince had
devoted much attention. The orchestra was reinforced by travelling
players of eminence, whilst, in addition to singers especially engaged
from Italy, various strolling companies were invited to give their
services from time to time. It was an essential part of the scheme
that this body of musicians and actors--temporary as well as
permanent--should form one family, with Haydn as its head; but the
appellation of 'Father Haydn,' by which the Capellmeister was known to
the members of his orchestra, had its origin in an affection which
owed nothing to discipline or arrangement. 'Friend, go back to the
first _allegro_,' was the wording of a direction written by Haydn on
the cover of one of his confrère's music-books, and it may be taken as
an indication of the happy relations which existed between the chief
of orchestra and his men.
A picture of the daily life at Esterház from spring to autumn would
show a constant round of life in its fullest and gayest sense.
Visitors poured in at its hospitable gates in an unbroken stream; and
the strain upon those whose duty it was to provide amusement for the
pleasure-seekers must have been enormous. If there was abundance of
work, however, there was no lack of helpers, and thus Esterház became
a little world in itself--a centre of music and acting, as well as an
emporium of art treasures. Thither came the Empress Maria Theresa on a
visit, and Haydn seized the opportunity of reminding her of the
chastisement which she had ordered him to receive when, as a
fair-haired chorister, he had clambered up the scaffolding-poles of
the royal palace. 'Ah, well!' replied the Empress with a smile; 'you
must see yourself, my dear Haydn, that the whipping has produced good
fruit!'
Prince Nicolaus, though an excellent master, and one for whom Haydn
entertained a deep affection, was, nevertheless, somewhat unreasonable
in expecting his Capelle to share his devotion to Esterház as an
almost continuous residence. The visits to Vienna were getting fewer
and shorter--even the winter at Eisenstadt had been reduced to its
shortest limits--and, admitting the attractions of the new palace as a
summer residence, the musicians were pining to see their wives and
families, and to breathe once more the air of the city. In 1772 the
stay at Esterház was prolonged so far into the autumn that the
musicians became impatient. The Prince had made no announcement of
the date of his departure, and Haydn at length resolved to convey to
his royal master a delicate hint of the orchestra's desire to be set
free. He therefore announced the performance of what he called 'The
Farewell Symphony'; and when the evening arrived, sixteen performers
took their seats in the orchestra to carry out the Capellmeister's
scheme, whilst the Prince, having no suspicion of what was intended,
occupied his accustomed place. All went as usual until the last
movement was reached, when one pair of performers rose from their
chairs, extinguished their candles, and quietly left the orchestra.
The music proceeded, and a little later a second pair arose, went
through the same pantomime, and disappeared, the Prince watching their
movements with a puzzled expression that almost destroyed the gravity
of the rest of the performers. Pair after pair thus left the building,
until at last only Tomasini (the Prince's favourite violinist) and
Haydn remained. Finally, Tomasini blew out his candle, bowed to the
Prince, and retreated, and as Haydn prepared to follow his example,
the Prince's eyes were opened to their drift. Good-humouredly
regarding the whole thing in the light of a joke, he exclaimed, 'If
all go, we may as well go too!' and immediately quitting the theatre,
he gave directions for the departure of the household.
We must pass over the years which intervened between the date of the
'Farewell Symphony' (the merits of which as a musical work must not be
confused with the circumstances under which it was written), and the
year 1790, when, to his great grief, Haydn lost the master to whom he
had become so deeply attached. The Prince left Haydn a pension of one
thousand florins, on condition that he retained his post as
Capellmeister to the family. Prince Anton, however, who succeeded his
brother, had no taste for music. The Capelle was practically
disbanded, and though Haydn kept his official position, his constant
presence at the palace was no longer necessary, and he took up his
residence in Vienna.
Some three years before this event several attempts had been made by
English musicians of eminence to induce him to come to London and play
at the professional concerts, but he had resisted these offers with
one and the same excuse--he could not leave the master whom he loved.
On the last occasion Salomon, the well-known musician and
concert-director, had dispatched a publisher named Bland to Esterház
to endeavour to persuade Haydn to alter his mind. Bland was shown into
a room adjoining that in which Haydn happened to be shaving, and
whilst seated there he overheard the composer growling to himself over
the bluntness of his razors. At length Bland caught the exclamation,
'Ach! I would give my best quartet for a good razor!' and without more
ado, he rushed off to his lodgings and returned in a few minutes with
a pair of razors, which he presented to Haydn. The Capellmeister
accepted the gift with a smile, and rewarded the enterprising
publisher with a copy of his latest quartet, which, later on, was
produced in London, and has ever since been known by the title of the
'Rasirmesser' (Razor) quartet.
The death of Prince Nicolaus removed the only obstacle to Haydn's
undertaking a journey to London; consequently, when one morning he
found a visitor awaiting him at his house, who announced his business
thus: 'My name is Salomon; I have come from London to fetch you; we
will settle terms to-morrow,' Haydn regarded the matter as practically
settled.
Mozart was in Vienna at the date of Salomon's visit. Haydn had been
strongly drawn towards the young musician ever since the time, five
years before, when, after listening to one of Mozart's quartets, he
had delighted the heart of Leopold Mozart by declaring that his son
was the greatest composer he had ever heard. Mozart's affection for
Haydn was equally warm, and now, on hearing that the latter
contemplated a journey to England, he tried to persuade him against
it, urging that he was advanced in years and unacquainted with the
English language. Haydn listened to his friend's objections, and then
observed with a smile, 'No matter; I speak a language which is
understood all over the world.' 'Then,' said Mozart, grasping Haydn's
hand as he spoke, it is good-bye, for we shall never meet again!' The
words were prophetic, for only a year later Haydn in London was
stunned by the news of Mozart's death.
It was a stormy December day when Haydn and Salomon set sail from
Calais, and the passage to Dover was a long and trying one for the
travellers. Nevertheless, Haydn, taking his stand on the deck, enjoyed
his first sight of the waves, and as the spray dashed in his face he
recalled with a smile how he had attempted to write the tempest music
for the actor-manager Kurz. A long interval separated him from those
days of keen want and fierce struggle, when he strove, almost against
hope, to establish a foothold for himself in the music-loving city of
Vienna! Now he was travelling to a greater city, not as an unknown,
struggling student, but with the assurance of a welcome befitting one
whom fame had already claimed for her own.
[Illustration: '_Haydn enjoyed his first sight of the waves._']
The night of his arrival in London was passed at Bland's music
warehouse, No. 45, High Holborn,[8] but the following day he went to
live with Salomon at the latter's lodgings, No. 18, Great Pulteney
Street, Golden Square.[9] Salomon had by no means overestimated the
warmth of the welcome which London was prepared to give to the
composer whose works were already familiar to English music-lovers.
From every quarter admiration and attentions were lavished upon him;
all the most celebrated people besought his acquaintance, and he was
invited everywhere. Yet his equanimity never deserted him. He took
everything very simply, and as if it were his due, and thoroughly
enjoyed the river parties and picnics which were arranged in his
honour. Not so, however, the lengthy dinners or evening entertainments
in town, where his ignorance of the language and customs of his hosts
made him feel less at his ease. The incessant noise of the streets was
a source of great discomfort to one who had been so long accustomed to
the silence of the country; and he positively refused to fashion
himself to the late hours of London. When, later on, he removed his
lodging to Lisson Grove, he writes in a strain of rejoicing to a
Vienna friend that he has at length found himself in the country amid
lovely scenery, where he lives as if he were in a monastery! It is
difficult for us to imagine the Lisson Grove of a century ago, when
the road stretched away through green fields and woodland spaces.
The first of Salomon's concerts was held on March 11, 1791, at the
Hanover Square Rooms. The hall was crowded, and the performance of
Haydn's 'Symphony' (Salomon, No. 2) was received with great applause;
nor would the audience remain satisfied until the _adagio_ movement
had been repeated--an event of such rare occurrence in those days as
to call for comment in the newspapers. This marked the beginning of a
most successful series of concerts, at each of which Haydn received a
great ovation. His benefit took place on May 16, and realized £350.
The Handel Commemoration Festival--the fifth and last of the
century--was held in Westminster Abbey during this visit, and it must
have been a moving sight to Haydn to observe the crowds flocking to
the Abbey early on that summer morning in order to hear the master's
greatest work. Haydn had secured a seat close to the King's box--a
position which commanded a view of the nave and the vast concourse of
listeners. Rarely had those venerable walls looked down upon such a
sea of expectant faces as that which was turned towards the distant
bank of musicians and singers when the moment drew nigh for the
performance to begin. There was reverence expressed in the hushed
silence which pervaded every nook and corner of the Abbey at that
supreme moment--a befitting reverence both for the dead composer whose
immortal work was to be celebrated, and for the sacredness of the
subject which he had chosen for illustration. As the oratorio
proceeded Haydn became more and more impressed. He had never heard the
'Messiah' performed on so grand a scale before, and when the opening
chords of the 'Hallelujah Chorus' rang through the nave and the entire
audience sprang to their feet, he burst into tears, exclaiming to
those around him, 'He is the master of us all!'
[Illustration: '_Lisson Grove a century ago._']
The first week in July found him at Oxford, at Commemoration, whither
he had gone to receive the honorary degree of Doctor of Music. Three
grand concerts were given in his honour, the principal singers and
performers having been brought from London, and on each occasion his
compositions were greeted with great applause. He appeared at the
third concert clad in his Doctor's gown, and met with an enthusiastic
reception. It was evident, however, that he was not feeling quite at
home in his new vestment, for when the students clapped their hands
and shouted he raised the gown as high as he could, exclaiming as he
did so, 'I thank you,' whereupon the applause was redoubled. Haydn
writes to a friend that he had to walk about for three whole days clad
in this guise, and he only wishes that his Vienna friends could have
seen him.
Amidst the wealth of incident which signalised his visit two little
scenes found a cherished corner in Haydn's memory. He was invited by
the Prince of Wales to visit Oatlands Park as the guest of the Duke of
York, who was spending his honeymoon there with his young bride, the
Princess of Prussia. The seventeen-year-old bride welcomed the sight
of Haydn's kindly face and the familiar sound of the German tongue,
and in one of his letters he describes how the _liebe Kleine_ sat
beside him as he played his 'Symphony,' humming the well-known airs to
herself, and urging him to go on playing until long past midnight. The
Princess also sang and played to him, whilst the Prince of Wales
played the violoncello, their attention being entirely given to
Haydn's works. It was during this visit that the portrait by Hoppner
was painted, which hangs in the gallery at Hampton Court.
The second picture, though one of a very different kind, he himself
described as having afforded him one of the greatest pleasures of his
visit. He went to St. Paul's to witness the gathering of the charity
children at their anniversary meeting, and the sight of the children's
faces and the sound of their young voices echoing through the vast
building touched him deeply, and no doubt recalled to his mind the
singing of the choristers in St. Stephen's Cathedral in bygone days.
Frau Haydn had evidently heard reports of her husband's successes, for
she troubled him with a letter at this time, in which she related how
she had found a small house and garden in the suburbs of Vienna, which
she felt would exactly suit her requirements when she became a widow.
She therefore begged that he would send her the money--a matter of two
thousand gulden--to complete the purchase. Haydn did not comply with
this simple request, but on his return journey to Vienna he inspected
the house, approved it, and bought it for himself!
It was in passing through Bonn, on his homeward journey, that Haydn
met Beethoven, and praised the composition which the young assistant
Hof-organist submitted to him.[10] The reception accorded to the
composer on his arrival at Vienna was in every way worthy of the fame
which his London visit had added to his reputation, and every one was
anxious to hear the symphonies which had taken the Londoners by storm.
The success of this visit led to a repetition in 1794. On this
occasion Haydn was accompanied by his faithful copyist and servant,
Johann Elssler, a son of the copyist to Prince Esterhazy, to whom,
since his birth, Haydn had acted as benefactor. Elssler's attachment
to his master was coupled with the greatest veneration for his genius,
and it was even reported that at such times as he thought himself
unobserved he would stop with the censer before his master's portrait,
as if it were an altar.
Once more Haydn was to pass through a series of successes under
Salomon's direction. His symphonies formed part of all the London
programmes. His popularity reached a height that rendered him the
'lion' of the season. He was frequently invited to Buckingham Palace
to perform to the King and Queen, and he was not allowed to depart
without a pressing request on the part of her Majesty that he would
settle in England. When London went to Bath, Haydn went there too, in
company with Dr. Burney, the eminent musician, and at once became the
centre of fashion and interest.
A description of all the incidents which this second visit comprised
would extend our story to an undue length. We will therefore content
ourselves by describing a touching little incident that marked his
homeward journey in August of the following year. To Haydn's complete
surprise he was invited by Count Harrach and a party of noblemen and
gentlemen to accompany them to the Count's park, situated close to
Rohrau, where a monument and bust of himself had been erected. He was
next taken to Rohrau itself, to inspect his old home and birthplace,
which had been preserved with every mark of loving care by those who
held the composer in such high esteem.
Haydn's emotions were deeply stirred by this action on the part of his
countrymen, as well as by the sight of his dear old home. Memories of
his happy childhood crowded upon him as he stood before the door, and,
prompted by a sudden impulse, he stooped and imprinted a kiss upon the
threshold; then, bidding his friends enter the cottage, he pointed to
the settle which stood beside the stove, and told them that it was
when seated on that settle, listening to his parents' singing, that
his musical career had begun. What, after all, were the grand palaces,
in which he had passed so many years of his life, with their costly
furniture and troops of servants, compared with that dear old cottage
home in which he had dreamed his childish dreams of music, and
listened to the hammers in the workshop beating out the time as he
played on his toy violin?
During his London visits Haydn had often expressed his admiration for
the English 'God save the King,' and he regretted that his own country
had no National Anthem of its own. This thought weighed the more with
him after his return because war had broken out with France, and he
felt that the people needed a means of giving expression to their
loyalty. He accordingly wrote the song 'Gott erhalte Franz den
Kaiser,' or 'The Emperor's Hymn,' which was performed for the first
time simultaneously at the Vienna National Theatre and the principal
theatres of the country on the Emperor's birthday, February 12, 1797.
This beautiful air was always a favourite one with Haydn during the
remainder of his life.
A portrait of Haydn at this time shows a man of short, substantial
build, and a somewhat ill-proportioned frame. The face, of which the
aquiline nose, projecting under-lip, and massive jaw were strongly
marked features, was very dark, and its habitual expression was
dignified and earnest, with an inclination to sternness. The dark grey
eyes, however, shone with a benevolent light that afforded an insight
into their owner's true nature--indeed, he used to say of himself
humorously that 'anyone could see by the look of him that he was a
good-natured sort of fellow.' He always wore a wig, with side-curls
and a pigtail, and the wig partly concealed his broad forehead. His
dignified expression relaxed in conversation, but although he was not
at all averse to joking, his laughter was always moderate and
controlled. Towards children he showed a love and sympathy that never
failed to win their confidence and affection. The title of 'Papa
Haydn,' by which he was known both to young and old during his
lifetime and with which his memory has ever since been coupled, was
the natural outcome of the universal affection in which he was held by
all classes. He was the 'father' of his chapel, sympathising with them
in their difficulties, and interceding in their behalf with the Prince
whenever occasion arose. In the same way his interest went out to all
young and struggling men of talent, to whom he gave advice and help.
But the title 'Papa Haydn' may claim to possess a further significance
in its use at the present time, 'as if musicians of all countries
claimed descent from him.'
Along with his indomitable industry went a love of order and method by
which every action was ruled, every habit framed. He rose very early
to begin work, for Nature seemed sweetest to him in her waking hours;
but he would never put a pen to paper or see a visitor until he was
fully dressed; and even when old age prevented his leaving the house
he maintained the same degree of punctiliousness in regard to his
appearance. His devoutness formed an indissoluble part of his nature,
and he regarded his genius as a gift of God which he was bound to use
thankfully for the benefit of mankind and to the glory of Him who gave
it. He never wrote a score without the words 'In nomine Domini'
appearing as an inscription, whilst 'Laus Deo' came at the end.