THE FIRST LONDON JOURNEY.
1781-1792.
A Winter Adventure--The Relations of Mozart and Haydn--Mozart’s
Dedication--The Emperor Joseph’s Opinions--Letters to Frau
von Genzinger--A Catalogue of Complaints--His Engagement with
Salomon--The London Journey--Scenes on the Way--A Brilliant
Reception--Rivalry of the Professional Concerts--The Händel
Festival--Honors at Oxford--Pleyel’s Arrival--Royal Honors--His
Benefit Concert--Return to Vienna.
“I am already at home in Vienna by my few works, and if the composer is
not there his children always are in all the concerts,” replied Haydn
to that Charity for artists’ widows, which wished to elect him as a
“foreigner,” upon such severe conditions. We meet with a characteristic
instance of this popularity about the year 1770, when he once, as was
his habit, went to Vienna on business.
It was winter. Over his somewhat shabby garments he had thrown a fur
cloak, whose age was also conspicuous. An uncombed wig and an old
hat completed his costume. Haydn, so great a friend of neatness, on
this occasion would hardly have been recognized. He looked like a
masquerader, when he entered Vienna. At the residence of a Count in
Karnthner Street he heard the music of one of his own symphonies. The
orchestra was powerful, the players good. “Stop, coachman, stop.”
Haydn sprang out of the carriage, hurried up to the house, ascended
the steps, entered the vestibule and listened quietly at the door. A
servant approached, surveyed the strange apparition from head to foot,
and at last thundered out: “What are you doing here, sir?” “I would
like to listen a little.” “This is no place for listening; go about
your business.” Haydn pretended not to hear the abuse. The servant at
last seized him by the cloak with the words: “You have heard enough,
now pack off or I will pitch you out doors.” Haydn handed him a couple
of Kreuzer pieces. As soon as the Allegro was finished the servant
again urged him to go. Haydn wanted to hear the Adagio, and was
searching his pocket anew, when by chance the door was opened, and he
was recognized by one of the players. In an instant the hall resounded
with a loud greeting. “Haydn, Haydn,” was on every lip! The doors
were thrown open and more than twenty persons surrounded the revered
master and bore him into the salon, a part of them greeting him as an
acquaintance and the rest seeking an introduction. In the midst of the
loud acclamation, a shrill voice above them cried out: “That is not
Haydn; it is impossible. Haydn must be larger, handsomer and stronger,
not such a little insignificant man as that one there in the circle.”
Universal laughter ensued. Haydn, more astonished than any of the
rest, looked about him to see who had disputed his identity. It was an
Italian Abbe who had heard of Haydn and admired him very much. He had
mounted a table in order to see him. The universal laughter only ended
with the commencement of the Adagio but Haydn remained until the close
of the symphony.
“My only misfortune is my country life,” Haydn writes in the spring
of 1781, but he could be in Vienna two of the winter months at least,
and there it was he found the artist, who more than all others, not
excepting even Philip Emanuel Bach, influenced him and helped to raise
his fame “to the stars”--Mozart.
Their personal acquaintance first commenced in the spring of 1781, when
Mozart came to Vienna and permanently remained there. The letters of
Mozart’s father, during the journeys of 1764 and 1768, make no mention
of Haydn, and in the summer of 1773, when Mozart passed a short time in
Vienna, Haydn as usual was at Esterhaz. Mozart’s own letters however
show that even as a boy he knew and admired Haydn. He sent for his
Minuets from Italy, and also created a taste for the German Minuet
among the Italians. The actual acquaintance between these two artists,
so widely apart in years, the true foundation of which both in life
and in their works, rested above all upon that cordiality which is so
intimate a part of German life, must have brought them very closely
together. How Mozart felt towards Haydn, a statement of Griesinger’s
shows. Haydn once brought out a new quartet in the presence of Mozart
and his old enemy, the Berliner, Leopold Kozeluch, in which some bold
changes occurred. “That sounds strange. Would you have written that
so?” said Kozeluch to Mozart. “Hardly” was the reply, “but do you know
why? Because neither you nor I could have hit upon such an idea.”
At another time, when this talentless composer would not cease his
fault-finding, Mozart excitedly exclaimed: “Sir, if we were melted down
together, we would be far from making a Haydn.”
Association with the circles, in which at this golden time of music in
Vienna, Haydn’s compositions were cherished with pleasure and love, and
even with actual devotion, by artists and connoisseurs, inspired him
to accomplish something of equivalent value. As early as the autumn of
1782, he commenced to write a series of six quartets, and the Italian
dedication of them to Haydn is the most beautiful instance of unselfish
admiration that can be conceived. It was written in the autumn of 1785,
and the translation reads:
MY DEAR FRIEND HAYDN:
When a father sends his sons out into the wide world, he should,
I think, confide them to the protection and guidance of a highly
celebrated man, who by some happy dispensation is also the best
among his friends. So to this famous man and most precious friend,
to thee, I bring my six sons. They are, it is true, the fruit of
long and laborious toil, but the hope which my friends hold out to
me leads me to anticipate that these works, a part at least, will
compensate me, and it gives me courage and persuades me that some
day they will be a source of happiness to me. You, yourself, dearest
friend, expressed your satisfaction with them during your last visit
to our capital. Your judgment above all inspires me with the wish
to offer them to you, and with the hope that they will not seem
wholly unworthy of your favor. Take them kindly, and be to them a
father, guide and friend. From this moment I resign all right in
them to you, and beg you to regard with indulgence the faults which
may have escaped the loving eyes of their father, and in spite of
them to continue your generous friendship towards one who so highly
appreciates it. Meantime I remain with my whole heart, your sincere
friend.
W. A. MOZART.
He called Haydn “Papa,” and when some one spoke of his dedication,
replied: “That was duty, for I first learned from Haydn how one should
write quartets.” How Haydn with his simple modesty always bowed to
divinely inspired genius, is shown by a letter from Mozart’s father, of
the fourteenth of February of the same year, 1785, which may be found
complete in the book: “Mozart, after Sketches by his Cotemporaries,”
(Leipsic, 1880). It reads: “On Saturday evening Herr Joseph Haydn was
with us. The new quartets were played, which complete the other three
we have. They are a little easier but delightfully written. Herr Haydn
said to me: ‘I declare to you, before God and upon my honor, your son
is the greatest composer with whom I am personally acquainted. He has
taste and possesses the most consummate knowledge of composition.’”
That was truly an expression of “satisfaction,” and to such a “father”
Mozart might well entrust his “children.” He understood their merits
and character. “If Mozart had composed nothing else but his quartets
and his ‘Requiem’ he would have been immortal,” the Abbe Stadler heard
Haydn remark afterwards. During a discussion of the well-known discord
in the introduction to the C major quartet, he declared that if Mozart
wrote it so, he had some good reason for it. He never neglected an
opportunity of hearing Mozart’s music, and declared that he could not
listen to one of his works without learning something. Kelly in his
Reminiscences, tells of a quartet performance about the year 1786, in
which Haydn, Dittersdorf Mozart and Banhall took part--certainly an
unprecedented gathering. Dittersdorf, of whose virtuoso playing mention
has already been made, must have played the first violin.
In the year 1787, “Don Juan” was brought out in Prague, and as Mozart
could not entertain a proposition for a second opera, application was
made to Haydn. He wrote from Esterhaz, in December, one of the most
beautiful of all his letters. It is contained in Mozart’s Biography:
“You desire a comic opera from me,” he says. “Gladly would I furnish
it, if you desired one of my vocal compositions for yourself alone,
but if it is to be brought out in Prague, I could not serve you,
because all my operas are so closely connected with our personal circle
at Esterhaz, and they could not produce the proper effect which I
calculated in accordance with the locality. It would be different, if
I had the inestimable privilege of composing an entirely new work for
your theater. Even then, however, the risk would be great, for scarcely
any one can bear comparison with the great Mozart. Would that I could
impress upon every friend of music, and especially upon great men,
the same deep sympathy and appreciation for Mozart’s inimitable works
that I feel and enjoy; then, the nations would vie with each other in
the possession of such a treasure. Prague should hold fast to such a
dear man, and also remunerate him, for without this the history of a
great man is sad indeed, and gives little encouragement to posterity
for effort. It is for the lack of this, so many promising geniuses are
wrecked. It vexes me that this matchless man is not yet engaged by some
imperial or royal court. Pardon me if I am excited, for I love the man
very dearly.”
The above reproach was superfluous so far as Mozart was concerned, for
he had at that time been appointed chamber-composer at the imperial
court, though Haydn, being in Eisenstadt, did not know it; but without
any doubt the reproach was applicable in another case--that of Haydn
himself. The recognition of his special work had as yet made but little
progress among the professional musicians, critics and influential
circles. His letters are full of protests against this injustice and
misfortune, and the statements of Mozart, already quoted, show how just
they were. The elegant leaders of Italian fashion and Spanish etiquette
were not more likely to encourage a low-born Esterhaz Capellmeister
in uncivilized Hungary than they were the national humor, pleasantry
and vivacity which had for the first time found proper expression in
music, and the liberties which these qualities permitted, contrary
to the accepted style, were either not recognized at all, or looked
upon as mistakes. It was all the more unfortunate for him that Joseph
II was the very embodiment of this foreign manner. The well-known
Reichardt, who met the Emperor in Vienna in 1783, relates: “I thought
at least in a conversation about Haydn, whom I named with reverence,
and whose absence I regretted, we should agree. ‘I thought,’ said
the Emperor, ‘you Berlin gentlemen did not care for such trifling. I
don’t care much for it, and so it goes pretty hard with the excellent
artist.’” This in a measure is confirmed by a conversation between
Joseph and Dittersdorf, two years later: “What do you think of his
chamber-music?” “That it is making a sensation all over the world, and
with good reason.” “Is he not too much addicted to trifling?” “He has
the gift of trifling without degrading his art.” “You are right there.”
While such malicious partiality and miscomprehension must have
distressed Haydn very much, it secured for him the renewed good opinion
of Mozart and recognition of his elevated character, and he did not
refrain from giving expression to it. “It was truly touching when he
spoke of the two Haydns and other great masters. One would have thought
he was listening to one of his scholars rather than to the all-powerful
Mozart,” says Niemetscheck, speaking of Mozart’s visit to Prague.
Rochlitz also reports the following opinion which Mozart expressed:
“No one can play with and profoundly move the feelings, excite to
laughter and stir the deepest emotions, each with equal power, like
Joseph Haydn.” Such reverence must have given the master the fullest
conviction of his artistic power, for who was better qualified to
pass such judgment than such a genius? Meanwhile this judgment was
confirmed by unprejudiced hearers all over the world. As we learn from
Gyrowetz’s Autobiography, a symphony of this young master was played
in Paris as a favorite composition in all the theaters and concerts,
because it was mistaken for a work of Haydn’s. He also had to specially
protect his music from being clandestinely copied and engraved.
It is not surprising therefore to hear him say at the close of a letter
in 1787, in which he offers a London publisher the “Seven Words,” six
“splendid” symphonies, and three “very elegant” nocturnes: “I hope
to see you by the close of this year, as I have not yet received any
reply from Herr Cramer as to an engagement for myself this winter in
Naples.” The London invitation concerned the so-called professional
concerts. A year afterward, J. P. Salomon contracted with him for
concert-engagements in the Haymarket theater. Mozart writes to his
father in 1783 as follows: “I know positively that Hofstetter has twice
copied Haydn’s music,” and Haydn himself in 1787 writes to Artaria:
“Your own copyist is a rascal, for he offered mine eight ducats this
winter to let him have the ‘Seven Words.’” He justly complains that
he is not paid sufficiently for his works, and on one occasion thanks
Artaria “without end for the unexpected twelve ducats.” “I have until
now kept it from my readers that Haydn declared on the occasion of
my first visit to him he had been in straightened circumstances to
his sixtieth year,” says Dies, and he adds that in spite of all his
economy and the generosity of Prince Nicholas at his death, and thirty
years of hard toil, his entire property consisted of a small house and
five hundred florins in gold. Besides this he had about two thousand
florins in public funds which he had laid aside against a time of
need. Dies rightly attributes such penury after such industry to the
extravagance of his wife. But notwithstanding the Esterhazy goodness,
the fact remains that Haydn often found himself longing for a change.
It mattered little that he had equal fame with Gluck and Mozart. Such
a Prince should have kept the purse of a man of such sensitive and
exalted feeling well filled.
“My greatest ambition is to be recognized by all the world as the
honest man which I really am,” he writes about the year 1776, and
dedicates all the praises he had received “to Almighty God, for to
Him alone are they due.” His wish was neither to offend his neighbor
nor his gracious Prince, and above all, the merciful God. Now that
he realized the beautiful divine pleasure of reverence, and that his
unworthy situation with its constant restrictions and distress pressed
upon his artistic feeling, he longed for a change more ardently than
ever. “I had a good Prince, but at times had to be dependent on base
souls; I often sighed for release,” he writes from London in 1791.
His determination to accept the London invitation must have been very
strong, for a letter of 1781 closes: “Meanwhile I thank you very much
for the lodgings offered me.” His gratitude actually prevented him from
traveling, though he was literally besieged by his friends, and, as we
have seen, was invited from abroad. “He swore to the Prince to serve
him until death should separate them and not to forsake him though he
were offered millions,” Dies heard him say. The Prince in times of
pressing necessity allowed him to draw upon his credit, but Haydn
availed himself of this privilege as seldom as possible, and was always
satisfied with small sums.
Among impressions so varied in their nature, the letters were written
which belong to the following year and from which we must present a few
short extracts. They are addressed to Frau von Genzinger in Vienna,
the wife of a physician who was also physician in ordinary to Prince
Esterhazy. She was very intimate with our master in his later years,
for she had made his friendship in connection with his art, having
arranged symphonies of his for the piano. In reading these letters,
one truly feels the noble aspirations of Haydn’s soul. The influence
which this excellent lady had upon the poetical character of his works
is evident in the beautiful sonata whose Adagio “meant so much.” Here
indeed vibrate accords as full of life and longing as music was capable
of expressing at that time in her soft measures.
In the house of this “ladies’ doctor,” as he was universally called in
Vienna, Mozart, Dittersdorf, Albrechtsberger, afterward Beethoven’s
teacher, and Haydn, when he was in Vienna, met regularly on Sundays,
and it must have been doubly painful to him to go back to his wretched
solitude from these delightful gatherings where he could sit near
her ladyship and hear the masterpieces of Mozart played. Alas! the
separation came sooner than Haydn wished. “The sudden resolution of my
Prince to withdraw from Vienna, which is hateful to him, is the cause
of my precipitate journey to Esterhaz,” he writes in 1789. In contrast
with the other magnates, who were fond of displaying their splendor and
gratifying their tastes, and nowhere was this so true as in Vienna,
Prince Nicholas with his increasing years grew more and more unpopular
in that city. Haydn himself gives the most forcible expression to his
dissatisfaction with his surroundings.
The address: “High and nobly born, highly esteemed, best of all, Frau
von Genzinger,” shows us the style of the time, and the following
letter of February 9, 1790, tells us the whole story:
“Here I sit in my wilderness, deserted like a poor orphan, almost
without human society, sad, full of the recollections of past happy
days, yes, past, alas! And who can say when those delightful days will
return--those pleasant gatherings, when the whole circle were of one
heart and soul--all those charming musical evenings which can only be
imagined, not described? Where are all those inspired moments? All are
gone, and gone for a long time,” he writes, and it was only his native
cheerfulness that could allay this feeling of loneliness. “Wonder
not, dear lady, that I have delayed so long in writing my gratitude.
I found everything at home torn up. For three days I was uncertain
whether I was Capellmeister or Capell-servant. Nothing consoled me.
My entire apartment was in confusion. My piano, which I love so much,
was inconstant and disobedient, and it vexed instead of tranquilizing
me. I could sleep but little, my dreams troubled me so. When I dreamed
of hearing ‘The Marriage of Figaro,’ a fatal north-wind awoke me and
almost blew my night-cap off my head.” In his next remarks we learn
of a composition, about which he had written a short time before to
his publisher, saying that he had in his leisure hours composed a new
capriccio for the piano, which by its taste, originality and close
finish would be sure to receive universal applause. “I became three
pounds thinner on the way,” he continues, “because of the loss of my
good Vienna fare. Alas, thought I to myself, when in my restaurant I
had to eat a piece of fifty-year-old cow instead of fine beef, an old
sheep and yellow carrots instead of a ragout and meat balls, a leathery
grill instead of a Bohemian pheasant! alas, alas, thought I, would that
I now had many a morsel which I could not have eaten in Vienna! Here,
in Esterhaz, no one asks me, ‘Would you like chocolate? Do you desire
coffee with or without milk? With what can I serve you, my dear Haydn?
Will you have vanilla or pine-apple ice?’ Would that I had only a piece
of good Parmesan cheese, so that I might the more easily swallow the
black dumplings! Pardon me, most gracious lady, for taking up your time
in my first letter with such piteous stuff. Much allowance must be made
for a man spoiled by the good things in Vienna. But I have already
commenced to accustom myself to the country by degrees, and yesterday I
studied for the first time quite in the Haydn manner.”
An event shortly after occurred which for the time greatly stimulated
his creative ability. The Princess died, and the Prince sank into such
melancholy that he wanted music every day. At this time he would not
allow him to be absent for twenty-four hours. He speaks often of his
deep distress of heart and of his many disappointments and ill-humors.
“But, thank God, this time will also pass away,” he says at the close
of a letter, in which he is looking forward to the winter. “It is sad
always to be a slave, but Providence so wills it,” he says on another
occasion. “I am a poor creature, continually tormented with hard work,
and with but few hours for recreation. Friends? What do I say? One
true friend? There are no longer any true friends, save one, oh! yes,
I truly have one, but she is far away from me; I can take refuge,
however, in my thoughts; God bless her and so order that she shall
not forget me.” “My friendship for you is so tender that it can never
become culpable, since I always have before my eyes reverence for
your exalted virtue,” he also wrote in reply to Frau von Genzinger,
concerning a letter which to his regret had been lost.
We now come to a time when the “ill-humors” ceased, and Haydn secured
a better situation, and, more than all, complete freedom. The Prince
died and crowned his generosity with the legacy of a pension of one
thousand gulden. The new Prince, Paul Anton, added four hundred gulden
more to it, so that Haydn could now live comfortably upon a stipend of
two thousand eight hundred marks. He discharged the orchestra and only
required of Haydn that he should retain the title of Capellmeister at
Esterhaz. Haydn called this position “poorly requited” and added that
he was on horseback, “without saddle or bridle,” but hoped one day or
other by his own service, “for I can not flatter or beg,” or by the
personal influence of his gracious Prince, to be placed in a higher
position. But this did not occur until a later time, and then by the
help “of his fourth Prince.” He soon removed to Vienna, and declined
the invitation of Prince Grassalkowic to enter his service. It was
not long before his affairs took a happy turn in another direction,
and in the place of rural restraint he enjoyed the widest and most
unrestricted public liberty.
The violinist, J. P. Salomon, a native of Bonn, who had played in
Haydn’s quartets long before and occupied a distinguished place in
the musical world of London, entered his room one evening and curtly
said: “I am Salomon, of London, and have come to take you away. We will
close the bargain to-morrow.” He was on his travels engaging singers
for the theatrical manager Gallini, and on his return to Cologne,
heard of the death of Prince Esterhazy. Haydn at first offered various
objections--his ignorance of foreign languages, his inexperience in
traveling and his old age; but Salomon’s propositions were so brilliant
that he wavered. Five thousand gulden, and the sale of his compositions
were something worth unusual consideration in the straightened
circumstances of a simple musician, entering upon old age. Besides, he
had plenty of compositions finished which no one knew of outside of
Esterhaz. He made his assent conditional upon the Prince’s permission
and gave no further heed to Salomon’s persuasions. Mozart himself, who
had traveled much about the world, interposed his objections with the
best intentions. “Papa” was too old. He was not fitted for the great
world. He spoke too few languages. A man of fifty-eight ought to remain
quietly among his old and sure friends. “I am still active and strong,
and my language is understood all over the world,” he replied.
The Prince did not refuse his permission, and the expenses of the
journey were advanced. Haydn sold his little house at Eisenstadt, took
the five hundred gulden which he had saved up, consigned his bonds to
his “highly cherished” Vienna friend to whom he commended his wife,
and made all his preparations for the journey which was to establish
his fame all over the world. He started Dec. 15, 1790. Mozart did
not leave his beloved “Papa” the whole day. He dined with him, and
tearfully exclaimed at the moment of separation: “We are saying our
last farewell to-day.” Haydn was also deeply moved. He was twenty-four
years older, and the thought of his own death alone occurred to him.
It was but a year later that he heard of Mozart’s death, and shed
bitter tears. “I shall rejoice in my home and in embracing my good
friends like a child,” he wrote at a later time to Frau von Genzinger,
“only I lament that the great Mozart will not be among them, if it
be true, which I hope not, that he is dead. Posterity will not find
such talent again for a century.” He was the one who was destined to
be the heir of Mozart, and it was his London visit which broadened his
intellectual horizon and gave his fancy freer development. He was then
the direct guide of Beethoven, whose sonatas, quartets and symphonies
were more closely developed and patterned upon the works which Haydn
had then written than upon Mozart’s, the marvelous beauty of whose
music was more like an inspiration from above, which could scarcely be
appropriated or imitated by his followers.
His letters to Frau von Genzinger abound in information about the
events of this journey, and, thanks to the detailed investigation of
C. F. Pohl in his little book, “Mozart and Haydn in London” (Vienna:
1867), we are now placed in full possession of them, but we shall
confine ourselves only to those details which are indispensable to a
record of Haydn’s progress.
In Munich, Haydn became acquainted with Cannabich, who had so greatly
promoted symphony performances in Germany--an acquaintance which must
have been of two-fold interest to the founder of the symphony. In Bonn,
particularly, where his music had many friends, and had been played
exceedingly often in churches, theaters, public and chamber-concerts
(see Beethoven’s Life, Vol. I), he was astonished on one occasion,
according to Dies’ narrative. Salomon took him on Christmas night to
the mass. “The first chords revealed a work of Haydn’s. Our Haydn
regarded it as an accident, though it was very agreeable to him to
listen to one of his own works,” it is said. Towards the close, a
person approached him and invited him to enter the oratory. Haydn was
not a little astonished when he saw that the Elector Maximilian had
summoned him. He took him by the hand and addressed his musicians in
these words: “Let me make you acquainted with your highly cherished
Haydn.” The Elector allowed him time for them to become acquainted,
and then invited him to his table. The invitation caused him a little
embarrassment, for he and Salomon had arranged a little dinner in
their own house. Haydn took refuge in excuses, and thereupon withdrew
and betook himself to his residence, where he was surprised by an
unexpected proof of the good will of the Elector. At his quiet command,
the little dinner had changed into a large one for twelve persons,
and the most skillful of the musicians had been invited. Could the
Elector’s court organist, Beethoven, have been among the guests? He
was at that time twenty years old, and certainly was among the most
skillful of the musicians.
Haydn writes about the remainder of the journey and his arrival in
London, to his friend in Vienna. He remained on deck during the entire
passage, that he might observe to his heart’s content that huge
monster, the sea. He might have thought with an ironical smile of the
storm in “The Devil on Two Sticks.” He was completely overwhelmed “with
the endlessly great city of London, which astonishes me with its varied
beauties and wonders,” but it still further broadened his experience to
see with his own eyes the representatives of a great free people like
those of England. His arrival had already caused a great sensation, and
for three days he went the rounds of all the newspapers. After a few
days he was invited to an amateur concert, and leaning upon the arm of
the director, passed through the hall to the front of the orchestra
amid universal applause, “stared at by all and greeted with a multitude
of English compliments.” Afterward he was conducted to a table set for
two hundred guests, where he was requested to sit at the head, but he
declined the honor, since he had already dined out, that noon, and
eaten more than usual; but in spite of this he was obliged to drink the
harmonious good health of the company in Burgundy.
This brilliancy of welcome characterized Haydn’s London visit until
its close. Both socially and as an artist he knew how to win hearts
to himself. His countryman, Gyrowetz, introduced him to fashionable
families which gave entertainments, where Haydn was the center of
attraction. His simple and cordial manner and its great contrast
with the imperious manner which the Italian artists assumed upon the
strength of their long residence, suited the English, and when he rose
from the table, seated himself at the piano and sang the cheerful
German songs, all, even the most prejudiced, circulated his fame.
Instances like that of the insulting slur of the once so celebrated,
but at that time old and conceited, Italian violinist, Giardini, who
received the announcement of his visit with the remark, “there is
nothing for me to learn from the German dog,” were rare, but Haydn
instead of being angry only laughed at his folly. In contrast with
such arrogance, he cherished genuine artists, as we know from his
association with the great organ-player, Dupuis. Sir G. Smart, so
well known to us from “Beethoven’s Life,” relates that he saw him
listening with close attention to Dupuis’ playing at St. James church,
and that when the latter came out of the chapel, Haydn embraced and
kissed him. The unanimous recognition of others’ merits was a natural
characteristic of Haydn as well as of Mozart. The newspapers had
something to say about him every day, but already that envy and malice
began, against which he, like every other one of prominence, had had
to contend from youth up. They discovered that his powers were in
their decadence, and on that account it was useless to longer expect
anything like his earlier productions. And this, too, when the Salomon
concerts had commenced and achieved the highest success, since every
new work of the master brought him new fame. The Professional Concerts,
under the direction of the violinist Cramer, who had offered him an
engagement in 1787, were his worst enemies. It was the professors, or
the professional musicians, who arranged these, and society rivalry led
them to look upon his success with an envious eye. And yet Haydn was
present at their first concert of the season which preceded the Salomon
concerts, and had complimented them upon performing his symphonies so
well without having had the opportunity of hearing them.
Salomon’s first concert met with decided success. It was of special
advantage that Haydn in his judicious way knew how to secure a
particular freedom of performance from his orchestra. He would flatter
his players and delicately mingle blame and praise. He invited the
best among them to dine, and besides all this, he took pains to
practically explain his ideas to them, so that the result, as Dies
emphatically says, was affection and inspiration. He would induce the
Italian singers themselves, who sedulously avoided every difficulty
and discord, to execute his frequently surprising modulations and
intonations. “Never, perhaps, have we had richer musical enjoyment,”
says the _Morning Chronicle_, speaking of the concert, “and the
Adagio of his symphony in D was encored--a very rare occurrence.” His
opera “Orpheus and Eurydice” for Gallini’s new theater, though nearly
completed, was not performed, as the opening of the stage was not
allowed. It has numbers of equal merit with the best that Haydn has
written, but as a whole it is modeled upon the usual Italian pattern
of separate airs. Haydn’s genius revealed itself otherwise in his own
special sphere, and except the quartets, the most of his instrumental
music which has come down to us had its origin at this time in
London, especially the twelve London symphonies. They display in the
clearest manner the increased development of his ideas and fancy, the
deepening of his thought and the rich and firm handling of instruments
which place Haydn on the same plane as Mozart and Beethoven. He had
an orchestra which in strength and skill was second to none in
the world at that time; at the same time, the efforts to produce
artistic impressions, which seize upon the mind and heart, aroused and
invigorated his large and sympathetic, if not always really musical,
audiences. It was Haydn who first created the love of pure instrumental
music in the heart of the great public of London, where vocal music
since Handel’s time had been more highly valued than elsewhere, and
this, too, not alone for its earnest, but for its humorous moods, which
were more readily appreciated by Englishmen. It was, however, his
quartets which were sought by the real friends and students of music,
and the best of these also were written in and for London.
At the end of May, Haydn attended the great Handel Festival, which
had been given every year since 1784, and in which over one thousand
musicians took part. Even the sight of the great assemblage was
brilliant and magnificent, but beyond all this, he had the opportunity
of hearing Handel’s music in its full majesty. More than twenty of
his large and minor works were performed, and the powerful personal
influence of the master dominated the performance. When the
world-renowned “Hallelujah” rose in great waves of sound, and the
thousands, with the king at their head, stood up, there was scarcely
a dry eye. Haydn, who stood near the king’s box, wept like a child,
and completely overcome, exclaimed: “He is the master of us all.” The
sublimity of the all-overmastering Eternal he never displays in his
own works. He was, so to speak, forced out of the church into life,
and never found his way back again to its sublime earnestness, but the
religious feeling and simple piety of the heart were active, living
principles in Haydn’s nature, and gave to his forms that breath of
living creation which transforms them into the “divine likeness.” The
perfect innocence and the touching and beautiful earnestness which
often appear in his works, come from the same source as Handel’s
majestic sublimity. His “Creation” is a still more convincing
illustration of this. Its origin was due to the London visit, and many
a large and important choral piece bears witness to the fact that Haydn
had now met and seen this Handel face to face. He was to him what
Sebastian Bach was to Mozart and Beethoven, whom he had not known so
well as they. On the 8th of July, 1791, after his brilliant season had
come to a close, Haydn received a special mark of distinction. The
degree of Doctor of Music was conferred upon him by the University of
Oxford. At the last festival concert, when he entered, clad in his
black silk doctor’s gown and four-cornered cap, he was enthusiastically
received. He seized the skirt of his gown, and held it up with a loud
“I thank you,” which simple expression of gratitude was greeted with
universal applause. This respect for England served to make him still
more famous. Salomon was warranted in announcing, a month later, that
they would continue their concerts in the same style as those which had
made such a success in the winter.
Meanwhile, an entirely unexpected summons to return to Esterhaz reached
him. He was expected to write the opera for a festivity at the Prince’s
court. Evidently he could not comply, for he had signed new terms of
agreement with Salomon, and thus had to encounter the Prince’s anger
for his desertion of duty.
“Alas, I now expect my discharge, but I hope that God will be gracious
and help me in some measure to efface my losses by my industry,” he
wrote to Frau von Genzinger, September 17, 1791, and this industry was
made less burdensome as he had spent the summer in the country, amid
beautiful scenery, with a family whose hearts, he writes, resemble
the Genzingers. How much must he, who was so accustomed to Nature,
have appreciated such a country visit! “I am, God be thanked, in good
health, with the exception of my customary rheumatism. I am working
industriously, and think every morning, as I walk alone in the woods
with my English grammar, of my Creator, of my family, and of all the
friends I have left behind,” he writes in his seclusion, which, as we
see, brought him the most beautiful outward and inward happiness. Added
to this was his consciousness of being free. “O, my dear gracious lady,
what a sweet relish there is in absolute liberty,” he writes again;
“I have it now in some degree; I appreciate its benefits, although my
mind is burdened with more work. The consciousness that I am no longer
a servant requites all my toil.” He realized there also a striking
confirmation of the happiness of rising “from nothing.” His landlord,
a rich banker, was so impressed with his narrative of his youthful
trials, that he once swore that he was getting on too well in the
world. He realized for the first time that he was not happy. “I have
only an abundance and I loathe it,” he exclaimed, and wished he had a
pistol that he might shoot himself, an event, however, which did not
happen, much to Haydn’s pleasure.
After his return to London he encountered exciting times, for the
Professional musicians bent all their energies to surpass the Salomon
concerts, and their public assaults had such an extended influence
that inquiries came from Vienna about the actual condition of his
circumstances. Even Mozart believed these reports and thought he must
have depreciated very much. “I can not believe it,” Haydn simply
writes, and refers him to his banker, Count Fries, in whose hands he
had placed five hundred pounds. “I am aware that there is a multitude
of envious persons in London, the most of whom are Italians, but they
can not hurt me, for my credit with the people has been settled many
years,” he says, and adds with confident feeling: “Those above them are
my support.”
As their next move, the Professionals sought to secure him for
themselves by higher offers, but he would not break his word or injure
his manager, whose outlay had been so large, by the gratification of
sordid motives. So they renewed their assaults upon his age and the
pretended decadence of his ability, and announced that they had secured
his pupil Pleyel. The latter, a neighbor and countryman of Haydn,
was at that time thirty-four years of age and twenty-five years the
younger. Mozart had expressed a favorable opinion of his talent. He
writes to his father in 1784 about Pleyel’s new quartets: “If you do
not yet know them, try to get them; it is worth the trouble. You will
at once recognize his master. It will be a good and fortunate thing for
music if Pleyel in his day is able to supply Haydn’s place for us.” He
was unquestionably innocent in the matter of the invitation to come to
London, and really made his appearance in the season of 1792.
Meanwhile, Haydn had spent two days with the Duke of York, who had
married the seventeen-year-old Princess Ulrica, of Prussia, daughter
of King Frederick William II. In 1787, her music-loving father had
sent him a ring, which he wore as a talisman, and a very complimentary
letter, for six new quartets. “She is the most charming lady in the
world, is very intelligent, plays the piano and sings very agreeably,”
writes Haydn. “The dear little lady sat near me and hummed all the
pieces, which she knew by heart, having heard them so often in
Berlin. The Duke’s brother, the Prince of Wales, played the ’cello
accompaniment very acceptably. He loves music exceedingly, has very
much feeling but very little money. His goodness, however, pleases me
more than any self-interest,” he says in conclusion. The Prince also
had Haydn’s portrait painted for his cabinet.
Many more personal attentions of a similar kind were paid him. One
Mr. Shaw made a silver lid for a snuff-box which Haydn had given him,
and inscribed thereon, “Presented by the renowned Haydn.” His very
beautiful wife--“the mistress is the most beautiful woman I have ever
seen,” he writes in his diary--embroidered his name in gold upon a
ribbon which he preserved even when a very old man. It was at this
time he received with bitter tears the news of Mozart’s death. “Mozart
died December 5, 1791,” he simply writes in his diary, but we know
the beautiful remark he made to his friend in Vienna who had so often
played Mozart’s masterpieces for him. At a later period he said in a
similar strain to Griesinger: “Mozart’s loss is irretrievable. I can
never forget his playing in my life. It went to the heart.” In the year
1807, speaking to other musical friends in Vienna, he said with tears
in his eyes: “Pardon me, I must always weep at the name of my Mozart.”
Indeed, at this time he must have deeply felt the contrast between the
brilliancy of this genius and the darkness of his own outer life in
these declining years. And yet he felt all the more the importance of
preserving the respect for German art. In the midst of such times as
these Pleyel arrived. “So there will now be a bloody harmonious war
between master and scholar,” he writes, but on the other hand they
were frequently together. “Pleyel displayed so much modesty upon his
arrival that he won my love anew. We are very often together, which is
to his credit, and he knows how to prize his father. We will share our
fame alike, and each one will go home contented,” he says. He too must
have longed for his Austrian home, or he would have acted differently
towards “Papa.”
One of the newspapers rightly understood the situation. “Haydn and
Pleyel are offset against each other this season, and both parties are
earnest rivals, yet as both belong to the same rank as composers, they
will not share the petty sentiments of their respective admirers,” says
the _Public Advertiser_, and so it eventuated, though not until after
many painful experiences for both the men, for with the others’ plans
there was mingled very much of personal animosity. The Professionals
announced twelve new compositions of Pleyel’s. Early in 1792 Haydn
writes to Vienna: “In order to keep my word and support poor Salomon,
I must be the victim, and work incessantly. I really feel it. My eyes
suffer the most. My mind is very weary, and it is only the help of God
that will supply what is wanting in my power. I daily pray to Him, for
without His assistance I am but a poor creature.” The best hours of the
day he was compelled to devote to visits and private musicals. “I have
never written in any one year of my life as much as in the last,” he
says, and yet his works show all the charming freshness of youth, with
the contrast of greater depth and richer illustration. He found time to
arrange twelve Scotch songs, and he says, “I am proud of this work, and
flatter myself that it will live many years after I am gone.” But they
made a complete failure, and the publishers therefore made a subsequent
application to Beethoven.
The professional concerts at this time again had the precedence, and
it is a fair illustration of their rivalry, that at the commencement
they brought out a symphony of his and sent him a personal invitation.
“They criticise Pleyel’s presumption very much, but I admire him
none the less. I have been to all his concerts, and was the first to
applaud him,” he writes to Vienna. In his first concert he also brought
out a symphony of Pleyel’s. His own new symphony, notwithstanding
he thought the last movement was weak, made “the deepest impression
upon his audience.” The Adagio had to be repeated, and the entire
work was performed again in the eighth and eighteenth concerts, by
“request.” For the second concert he wrote a chorus, “The Storm.” It
was the first which he had composed with English text, and it met with
extraordinary success, because in it were united the most striking
qualities of his art, skill, and good humor. As he himself writes, he
gained considerable credit with the English in vocal music and this was
destined to have a decisive result.
At the sixth concert, March 23, 1792, the symphony with the kettle-drum
effect was given. Haydn says of it: “It was a convenient opportunity
for me to surprise the public with something new. The first Allegro
was received with innumerable bravas, but the Andante aroused the
enthusiasm to the highest pitch. ‘Encore, encore,’ resounded on every
side, and Pleyel himself complimented me upon my effects.” Gyrowetz
visited him after its completion to hear it upon the piano. At the
drum-passage, Haydn, certain of its success, with a roguish laugh,
exclaimed: “There the women will jump.” Dies gives the current version
of the original cause of the work as follows: The ladies and gentlemen
in the concerts, which took place after the late English dinners, often
indulged in a nap, and Haydn thought he would waken them in this comic
manner. The English call the symphony, “The Surprise,” and among all
the twelve, it is to this day, the favorite.
How deeply Haydn’s music impressed his English hearers, and how
clearly it appears that they for the first time recognized the soul
of music, disclosing to the popular mind its mysterious connection
with the Infinite, is evident from a strange entry in Haydn’s diary. A
clergyman, upon hearing the Andante of one of his symphonies, sank into
the deepest melancholy, because he had dreamed the night before its
performance, that the piece announced his death. He immediately left
the assemblage, and took to his bed. “I heard to-day, April 25, that
this clergyman died,” writes Haydn. It is the elementary revelations of
the deepest feeling and individual spiritual certitude that speak to us
in Haydn’s music, and they have, so to speak, the most powerful grasp
upon our individual existence. Indeed, they explain the irresistible
and immeasurable influence of music. It is the image of Infinity
itself, while the other arts are only the images of its phenomena. Its
influence is so much more powerful and impressive than that of the
other arts, because, as the philosopher would say, they represent only
the shadow of things, while music represents their actual existence. A
people so pre-eminently metaphysical and serious in character as the
English, must have taken this simple, but deeply thoughtful Haydn and
his symphonies into their very hearts. How could they have awarded the
palm to any one living at that time over him? He had himself thoroughly
comprehended the deep-lying genius of this nation, and in the province
of _his_ genius he could lead it to a point its own nature could not
reach. Every one of his compositions written for London, as well as
those subsequently, show this, and many of his utterances illustrate
his esteem for the English public. “The score was much more acceptable
to me because much of it I had to change to suit the English taste,”
he writes in March, 1792, when his long wished-for symphony in E major
had been forwarded to him from Vienna. And it should be remembered
among all these events that Handel had written all his oratorios in and
for London, and Beethoven’s Ninth was “the symphony for London.”
In May, 1792, Haydn had a benefit concert, at which two new symphonies
were performed, and this, like the last concert, met with such favor,
that Salomon offered the public an extra concert with the works that
had been most admired during the season. “Salomon closed his season
with the greatest eclat,” says the _Morning Herald_, and Pohl simply
and appropriately adds: “Haydn was in all his glory, beloved, admired
and courted. His name was the main stay of every concert-giver.
Painters and engravers immortalized their art by his picture.” One
such, a highly characteristic profile portrait, by George Dance, is
given with the English edition (1867) of the “Musical Letters.”[A] It
confirms the description of his appearance, which has already been
given, in every feature.
Before his departure, he had another experience, which clearly
indicates and reveals the source of music in his nature. At the yearly
gathering of the Charity Scholars at St. Paul’s cathedral, he heard
four thousand children sing a simple hymn. “I was more touched by this
devout and innocent music than by any I ever heard in my life,” he says
in his diary, and he adds in confirmation of it: “I stood and wept like
a child.”
With this impression were unconsciously associated the most active
memories of his own home, from which he had been absent so long. The
home-image never rises so vividly in our hearts as when we see these
little ones who are so particularly the active genii of the house and
home. He stated, as the principal reason for his return, his wish to
enjoy the pleasure of his fatherland; and he wrote in December, 1791,
that he could not reconcile himself to spend his life in London, even
if he could amass millions. Other artists have also borne testimony
to the influence of the Festival alluded to above. In 1837, Berlioz
attended it with the violinist Duprez and John Cramer. “Never have
I seen Duprez in such a state; he stammered, wept, and raved,” says
Berlioz. The latter, in order to get a better view of the whole scene,
donned a surplice, and placed himself among the accompanying basses,
where, more than once, “like Agamemnon with his toga,” he covered his
face with his music sheets, overcome with the sight of the children and
the sound of their voices. As they were going out, Duprez exclaimed
in delight, speaking in Italian instead of French, in his excitement:
“Marvelous! marvelous! The glory of England!”
Haydn might well have thought the same, for he had already made a deep
impression upon the nation, and touched its heart with the kindly
feelings of life.
It was his last great experience “in the vast city of London,” and
to Haydn’s inner nature it gave in brief all that he had given and
all that was due to him. It was the first time he had seen a vast
multitude of human beings in a great and eagerly listening throng, and
it expanded his own nature, which had been restricted, to the widest
bounds, without in any way modifying its power. He had experienced the
full measure of English humor, manifesting itself in those relations
of personal affection which the “beautiful and gracious” Mrs. Schroter
had expressed for him and his “sweet” compositions--an affection which
she herself regarded as “one of the greatest blessings of her life,”
and which had bound her to him in an indissoluble attachment. “My
heart was, and still is, full of tenderness for you, yet words can
not express half the love and affection which I feel for you. You are
dearer to me every day of my life,” she says at another time. That it
was the deep principle and character of his life which had aroused
such a passionate affection in the already aged lady, these words
confess: “Truly, dearest, no tongue can express the gratitude which I
feel for the unbounded delight your music has given me.” The fact that
this loving esteem was meant for Haydn himself, makes it all the more
beautiful.
Such were the satisfying and grateful feelings which filled his soul
at the moment of parting. Outwardly and inwardly blessed, he returned
to Vienna in July, 1792, and not two years later, he was again on the
Thames.