Face and Features--Portraits--Social Habits--Partial to Pretty
Women--His Letters--His Humour--His Generosity--Unspoiled by
Success--His Piety--His Industry--Habits of Composition--Impatient of
Pedantry.
Face and Features
Something of Haydn's person and character will have already been
gathered from the foregoing pages. He considered himself an ugly man,
and, in Addison's words, thought that the best expedient was "to be
pleasant upon himself." His face was deeply pitted with small-pox, and
the nose, large and aquiline, was disfigured by the polypus which he
had inherited from his mother. In complexion he was so dark as to
have earned in some quarters the familiar nickname of "The Moor." His
underlip was thick and hanging, his jaw massive. "The mouth and chin
are Philistine," wrote Lavater under his silhouette, noting, at the same
time, "something out of the common in the eyes and the nose." The eyes
were dark gray. They are described as "beaming with benevolence," and
he used to say himself: "Anyone can see by the look of me that I am a
good-natured sort of fellow."
In stature he was rather under the middle height, with legs
disproportionately short, a defect rendered more noticeable by the style
of his dress, which he refused to change with the changes of fashion.
Dies writes: "His features were regular, his expression animated, yet,
at the same time, temperate, gentle and attractive. His face wore
a stern look when in repose, but in conversation it was smiling and
cheerful. I never heard him laugh out loud. His build was substantial,
but deficient in muscle." Another of his acquaintances says that
"notwithstanding a cast of physiognomy rather morose, and a short way
of expressing himself, which seemed to indicate an ill-tempered man, the
character of Haydn was gay, open and humorous." From these testimonies
we get the impression of a rather unusual combination of the attractive
and the repulsive, the intellectual and the vulgar. What Lavater
described as the "lofty and good" brow was partly concealed by a wig,
with side curls, and a pig-tail, which he wore to the last. His dress as
a private individual has not been described in detail, but the Esterhazy
uniform, though frequently changing in colour and style, showed him in
knee-breeches, white stockings, lace ruffles and white neckcloth. This
uniform he never wore except when on actual duty.
Portraits
After his death there were many portraits in chalks, engraved, and
modeled in wax. Notwithstanding his admission of the lack of personal
graces, he had a sort of feminine objection to an artist making him look
old. We read that, in 1800, he was "seriously angry" with a painter who
had represented him as he then appeared. "If I was Haydn at forty," said
he, "why should you transmit to posterity a Haydn of seventy-eight?"
Several writers mention a portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and even give
details of the sittings, but he never sat to Reynolds, whose eyesight
had begun to fail before Haydn's arrival in England. During his first
visit to London Hoppner painted his portrait at the special request of
the Prince of Wales. This portrait was engraved by Facius in 1807, and
is now at Hampton Court. Engravings were also published in London by
Schiavonetti and Bartolozzi from portraits by Guttenbrunn and Ott, and
by Hardy from his own oil-painting. A silhouette, which hung for long
at the head of his bed, was engraved for the first time for Grove's
Dictionary of Music. This was said by Elssler, his old servant, to have
been a striking likeness. Of the many busts, the best is that by his
friend Grassi, the sculptor.
[figure: Haydn's silhouette by Lavater]
Social Habits
Very little has been recorded of his social habits. Anything like
excess in wine is not once mentioned; but it is easy to see from his
correspondence that he enjoyed a good dinner, and was not insensible to
creature comforts. Writing to Artaria from Esterhaz in 1788, he says:
"By-the-bye, I am very much obliged to you for the capital cheese you
sent me, and also the sausages, for which I am your debtor, but shall
not fail when an opportunity offers to return the obligation." In a
subsequent letter to Frau von Genzinger he comically laments the change
from Vienna to Esterhaz: "I lost twenty pounds in weight in three days,
for the effect of my fare at Vienna disappeared on the journey. 'Alas!
alas!' thought I, when driven to eat at the restaurateurs, 'instead of
capital beef, a slice of a cow fifty years old; instead of a ragout with
little balls of force-meat, an old sheep with yellow carrots; instead
of a Bohemian pheasant, a tough grill; instead of pastry, dry apple
fritters and hazelnuts, etc.! Alas! alas! would that I now had many a
morsel I despised in Vienna! Here in Esterhaz no one asks me, Would you
like some chocolate, with milk or without? Will you take some coffee,
with or without cream? What can I offer you, my good Haydn? Will you
have vanille ice or pineapple?' If I had only a piece of good Parmesan
cheese, particularly in Lent, to enable me to swallow more easily the
black dumplings and puffs! I gave our porter this very day a commission
to send me a couple of pounds." Even amid the social pleasures and
excitements of London, where he was invited out six times a week and
had "four excellent dishes" at every dinner, he longs to be back in his
native land so that he may have "some good German soup."
Partial to Pretty Women
We read that in Austria he "never associated with any but the musicians,
his colleagues," a statement which cannot be strictly true. In London
he was, as we have seen, something of a "lion," but it is doubtful if he
enjoyed the conventional diversions of the beau monde. Yet he liked the
company of ladies, especially when they were personally attractive.
That he was never at a loss for a compliment may perhaps be taken as
explaining his frequent conquests, for, as he frankly said himself, the
pretty women "were at any rate not tempted by my beauty." Of children he
was passionately fond, a fact which lends additional melancholy to his
own unhappy and childless home life.
His Letters
He was not highly educated, and he does not seem to have taken much
interest in anything outside his own profession. This much may be
gathered from his correspondence, upon which it is not necessary to
comment at length. Mr Russell Lowell remarks that a letter which is not
mainly about the writer loses its prime flavour. Haydn's letters are
seldom "mainly about the writer." They help us very little in seeking to
get at what Newman called "the inside of things," though some, notably
those given at the end of this volume, embody valuable suggestions.
He habitually spoke in the broad dialect of his native place. He knew
Italian well and French a little, and he had enough Latin to enable him
to set the Church services. Of English he was almost entirely ignorant
until he came to London in 1791, when we hear of him walking the country
lanes with an English grammar in hand. There is an amusing story of a
dinner at Madame Mara's, at which he was present during his first visit.
Crossdill, the violoncellist, proposed to celebrate him with "three
times three." The suggestion was at once adopted, all the guests, with
the exception of Haydn himself, standing up and cheering lustily. Haydn
heard his name repeated, but not understanding what was going on, stared
at the company in blank bewilderment. When the matter was explained to
him he appeared quite overcome with diffidence, putting his hands
before his face and not recovering his equanimity for some minutes. [See
Records of My Life, by John Taylor: London, 1832.]
His Humour
Of hobbies or recreations he appears to have had none, though, to
relieve the dull monotony of life at Eisenstadt or Esterhaz, he
occasionally indulged in hunting and fishing and mountain rambles. A
leading trait in his character was his humour and love of fun. As he
remarked to Dies: "A mischievous fit comes over me sometimes that is
perfectly beyond control." The incident of the removal of the fellow
chorister's pig-tail will at once recur to the memory. The "Surprise"
Symphony is another illustration, to say nothing of the "Toy" Symphony
and "Jacob's Dream."
His Generosity
Of his generosity and his kindness to fellow artists there are many
proofs. In 1800 he speaks of himself as having "willingly endeavoured
all my life to assist everyone," and the words were no empty boast. No
man was, in fact, more ready to perform a good deed. He had many needy
relations always looking to him for aid, and their claims were seldom
refused. A brother artist in distress was sure of help, and talented
young men found in him a valuable friend, equally ready to give his
advice or his gold, as the case might require. That he was sometimes
imposed upon goes without saying. He has been charged with avarice, but
the charge is wholly unfounded. He was simply careful in money matters,
and that, to a large extent, because of the demands that were constantly
being made upon him. In commercial concerns he was certainly sharp
and shrewd, and attempts to take advantage of him always roused his
indignation. "By heavens!" he writes to Artaria, "you have wronged me to
the extent of fifty ducats.... This step must cause the cessation of all
transactions between us." The same firm, having neglected to answer some
business proposition, were pulled up in this fashion: "I have been much
provoked by the delay, inasmuch as I could have got forty ducats
from another publisher for these five pieces, and you make too many
difficulties about a matter by which, in such short compositions, you
have at least a thirty fold profit. The sixth piece has long had its
companion, so pray make an end of the affair and send me either my music
or my money."
The Haydn of these fierce little notes is not the gentle recluse we are
apt to imagine him. They show, on the contrary, that he was not wanting
in spirit when occasion demanded. He was himself upright and honest in
all his dealings. And he never forgot a kindness, as more than one entry
in his will abundantly testifies. He was absolutely without malice, and
there are several instances of his repaying a slight with a generous
deed or a thoughtful action. His practical tribute to the memory of
Werner, who called him a fop and a "scribbler of songs," has been
cited. His forbearance with Pleyel, who had allowed himself to be pitted
against him by the London faction, should also be recalled; and it is
perhaps worth mentioning further that he put himself to some trouble to
get a passport for Pleyel during the long wars of the French Revolution.
He carried his kindliness and gentleness even into "the troubled region
of artistic life," and made friends where other men would have made
foes.
Unspoiled by Success
His modesty has often been insisted upon. Success did not spoil him. In
a letter of 1799 he asks that a certain statement in his favour should
not be mentioned, lest he "be accused of conceit and arrogance, from
which my Heavenly Father has preserved me all my life long." Here he
spoke the simple truth. At the same time, while entirely free from
presumption and vanity, he was perfectly alive to his own merits, and
liked to have them acknowledged. When visitors came to see him nothing
gave him greater pleasure than to open his cabinets and show the medals,
that had been struck in his honour, along with the other gifts he had
received from admirers. Like a true man of genius, as Pohl says, he
enjoyed distinction and fame, but carefully avoided ambition.
High Ideals
Of his calling and opportunities as an artist he had a very high idea.
Acknowledging a compliment paid to him in 1802 by the members of the
Musical Union in Bergen, he wrote of the happiness it gave him to think
of so many families susceptible of true feeling deriving pleasure and
enjoyment from his compositions.
"Often when contending with the obstacles of every sort opposed to my
work, often when my powers both of body and mind failed, and I felt it
a hard matter to persevere in the course I had entered on, a secret
feeling within me whispered, 'There are but few contented and happy men
here below; everywhere grief and care prevail, perhaps your labours may
one day be the source from which the weary and worn or the man burdened
with affairs may derive a few moments' rest and refreshment.' What a
powerful motive to press onwards! And this is why I now look back with
heartfelt, cheerful satisfaction on the work to which I have devoted
such a long succession of years with such persevering efforts and
exertions."
With this high ideal was combined a constant effort to perfect himself
in his art. To Kalkbrenner he once made the touching remark: "I have
only just learned in my old age how to use the wind instruments, and now
that I do understand them I must leave the world." To Griezinger, again,
he said that he had by no means exhausted his genius: that "ideas were
often floating in his mind, by which he could have carried the art far
beyond anything it had yet attained, had his physical powers been equal
to the task."
His Piety
Closely, indeed inseparably, connected with this exalted idea of his art
was his simple and sincere piety. He was a devout Christian, and looked
upon his genius as a gift from God, to be freely used in His service.
His faith was never assailed with doubts; he lived and died in the
communion of the Catholic Church, and was "never in danger of becoming
either a bigot or a free-thinker." When Carpani, anticipating latter-day
criticism, hinted to him that his Church compositions were impregnated
with a light gaiety, he replied: "I cannot help it; I give forth what
is in me. When I think of the Divine Being, my heart is, so full of joy
that the notes fly off as from a spindle, and as I have a cheerful heart
He will pardon me if I serve Him cheerfully."
His reverent practice during the composition of "The Creation" has been
mentioned. "Never was I so pious," he said. There are many proofs of the
same feeling in his correspondence and other writings. Thus he concludes
an autobiographical sketch with the words: "I offer up to Almighty God
all eulogiums, for to Him alone do I owe them. My sole wish is neither
to offend against my neighbour nor my gracious prince, but above all not
against our merciful God." Again, in one of his later letters, he says
"May God only vouchsafe to grant me the health that I have hitherto
enjoyed, and may I preserve it by good conduct, out of gratitude to
the Almighty." The note appended to the first draft of his will is also
significant. Nor in this connection should we forget the words with
which he inscribed the scores of his more important compositions. For
the conclusion he generally adopted Handel's "Soli Deo Gloria" or "Laus
Deo," with the occasional addition of "et B.V. Mae. et Oms. Sis. (Beatae
Virgini Mariae et Omnibus Sanctis)." Even his opera scores were so
inscribed, one indeed having the emphatic close: "Laus omnipotenti Deo
et Beatissimae Virgini Mariae." The superscription was uniformly "In
nomine Domini." It is recorded somewhere that when, in composing, he
felt his inspiration flagging, or was baulked by some difficulty, he
rose from the instrument and began to run over his rosary. In short, not
to labour the point, he had himself followed the advice which, as an old
man, he gave to the choirboys of Vienna: "Be good and industrious and
serve God continually."
His Industry
The world has seen many an instance of genius without industry, as of
industry without genius. In Haydn the two were happily wedded. He was
always an early riser, and long after his student days were over he
worked steadily from sixteen to eighteen hours a day. He lived strictly
by a self-imposed routine, and was so little addicted to what Scott
called "bed-gown and slipper tricks," that he never sat down to work or
received a visitor until he was fully dressed. He had none of Wagner's
luxurious tastes or Balzac's affectations in regard to a special attire
for work, but when engaged on his more important compositions he always
wore the ring given him by the King of Prussia. In Haydn's case there
are no incredible tales of dashing off scores in the twinkling of
an eye. That he produced so much must be attributed to his habit of
devoting all his leisure to composition. He was not a rapid worker if we
compare him with Handel and Mozart. He never put down anything till he
was "quite sure it was the right thing"--a habit of mind indicated by
his neat and uniform handwriting ["His notes had such little heads and
slender tails that he used, very properly, to call them his, flies'
legs."--Bombet, p. 97.]--and he assures us: "I never was a quick writer,
and always composed with care and deliberation. That alone," he added,
"is the way to compose works that will last, and a real connoisseur can
see at a glance whether a score has been written in undue haste or not."
He is quoted as saying that "genius is always prolific." However the
saying may be interpreted, there does not seem to have been about him
anything of what has been called the irregular dishabille of composers,
"the natural result of the habit of genius of watching for an
inspiration, and encouraging it to take possession of the whole being
when it comes."
Habits of Composition
His practice was to sketch out his ideas roughly in the morning, and
elaborate them in the afternoon, taking pains to preserve unity in
idea and form. "That is where so many young composers fail," he said
in reference to the latter point. "They string together a number of
fragments; they break off almost as soon as they have begun, and so at
the end the listener carries off no definite impression." The importance
of melody he specially emphasized. "It is the air which is the charm of
music," he remarked, "and it is that which is most difficult to produce.
The invention of a fine melody is the work of genius." In another place
he says: "In vocal composition, the art of producing beautiful melody
may now almost be considered as lost; and when a composer is so
fortunate as to throw forth a passage that is really melodious, he is
sure, if he be not sensible of its excellence, to overwhelm and destroy
it by the fullness and superfluity of his instrumental parts." [Compare
Mozart's words as addressed to Michael Kelly: "Melody is the essence of
music. I should liken one who invents melodies to a noble racehorse, and
a mere contrapuntist to a hired post-hack."]
He is stated to have always composed with the aid of the pianoforte or
harpsichord; and indeed we find him writing to Artaria in 1788 to say
that he has been obliged to buy a new instrument "that I might compose
your clavier sonatas particularly well." This habit of working out ideas
with the assistance of the piano has been condemned by most theorists
as being likely to lead to fragmentariness. With Haydn at any rate the
result was entirely satisfactory, for, as Sir Hubert Parry points out,
the neatness and compactness of his works is perfect. It is very likely,
as Sir Hubert says, that most modern composers have used the pianoforte
a good deal--not so much to help them to find out their ideas, as to
test the details and intensify their musical sensibility by the excitant
sounds, the actual sensual impression of which is, of course, an
essential element in all music. The composer can always hear such things
in his mind, but obviously the music in such an abstract form can never
have quite as much effect upon him as when the sounds really strike
upon his ear. [See Studies of Great Composers, by C. Hubert H. Parry, p.
109.]
No Pedant
Like all the really great composers, Haydn was no pedant in the matter
of theoretical formulae, though he admitted that the rigid rules of
harmony should rarely be violated, and "never without the compensation
of some inspired effect." When he was asked according to what rule he
had introduced a certain progression, he replied "The rules are all
my very obedient humble servants." With the quint-hunters and other
faddists who would place their shackles on the wrists of genius, he had
as little patience as Beethoven, who, when told that all the authorities
forbade the consecutive fifths in his C Minor Quartet, thundered out:
"Well, I allow them." Somebody once questioned him about an apparently
unwarranted passage in the introduction to Mozart's Quartet in C Major.
"If Mozart has written it, be sure he had good reasons for doing
so," was the conclusive reply. That fine old smoke-dried pedant,
Albrechtsberger, declared against consecutive fourths in strict
composition, and said so to Haydn. "What is the good of such rules?"
demanded Haydn. "Art is free and must not be fettered by mechanical
regulations. The cultivated ear must decide, and I believe myself as
capable as anyone of making laws in this respect. Such trifling is
absurd; I wish instead that someone would try to compose a really new
minuet." To Dies he remarked further: "Supposing an idea struck me as
good and thoroughly satisfactory both to the ear and the heart, I would
far rather pass over some slight grammatical error than sacrifice
what seemed to me beautiful to any mere pedantic trifling." These were
sensible views. Practice must always precede theory. When we find a
great composer infringing some rule of the old text-books, there is, to
say the least, a strong presumption, not that the composer is wrong, but
that the rule needs modifying. The great composer goes first and invents
new effects: it is the business of the theorist not to cavil at every
novelty, but to follow modestly behind and make his rules conform to the
practice of the master. [Compare Professor Prout's Treatise on Harmony.]
Thus much about Haydn the man. Let us now turn to Haydn the composer and
his position in the history of music.