1761-1790
Haydn went to Eisenstadt, in Hungary, in 1761 to take up the duties of
his new post--that of second Kapellmeister to Prince Anton of Esterhazy.
In that year feudal Europe had not been shaken to the foundations by the
French Revolution; few in Europe, indeed, and none in sleeping German
Austria, dreamed that such a shaking was at hand, and that royal and
ducal and lesser aristocratic heads, before the century was out, would
be dear at two a penny. Those drowsy old courts--how charming they seem
on paper, how fascinating as depicted by Watteau! Yet one wonders how in
such an atmosphere any new plants of art managed to shoot at all. The
punctilious etiquette, the wigs, the powder, the patches, the
grandiloquent speechifyings, the stately bows and graceful curtsies, the
prevalence--nay, the domination--of taste, what a business it all was!
The small electors, seigneurs, dukes and what not imitated the archducal
courts; the archdukes mimicked the imperial courts: all was stiff,
stilted, unnatural to a degree that seems to us nowadays positively
soul-killing, devilish. But some surprising plants grew up, some
wondrous fruits ripened in them. A peasant-mind, imbued with
peasant-songs, was set in one; the peasant-mind in all outward matters
conformed to all the rules, and was loved by the petty princes to whom
it was never other than highly, utterly respectful, and lo! the
peasant-songs blew and blossomed into gigantic art forms, useful to the
composers who came in a time when feudalism was as clean swept away as
the wigs and patches that were its insignia. To change this rather too
eloquent trope, Haydn, living a life of deadly routine and dulness, duly
subservient to his divinely appointed betters, took the songs of the
people (who paid to keep the whole apparatus in working order), and out
of them built up what is the basis of all the music written since. If
Providence in very deed ordained that millions of men and women should
toil that a few small electors, dukes and princes should lead lives of
unhappy artificial luxury, then Providence did well at the same time to
arrange for a few counts such as Morzin, and princes like those of
Esterhazy.
Haydn's chief in musical affairs was old Werner. His salary was at first
£40, and he was passing rich on it; and it was soon raised to £79. We
need trouble no further as to whether on such wages he was poor or rich:
he evidently considered himself well-to-do. In fact, even in those
days, when copyright practically did not exist, he continually made
respectable sums by his compositions, and after he had been twice to
England, ever the Hesperides' Garden of the German musician, he was a
wealthy man, and was thankful for it. He was as keen at driving a
bargain as Handel, or as the mighty Beethoven himself, and we, too,
ought to be glad that he had a talent for getting money and keeping it.
The date of his appointment was May 1, 1761; but he had been at work
less than a year when Prince Anton died, March 18, 1762. Anton was
succeeded by his brother Nicolaus, surnamed or nicknamed the
Magnificent, and in truth a most lordly creature. Almost immediately
changes began. Eisenstadt did not content Nicolaus; Versailles was the
admiration of all Europe, and he determined to rival Versailles. The
building was begun at Süttör, a place at the southern end of
Neusiedler-See, of the palace of Esterház, and it was here that Haydn
was destined to write the bulk of his music, though not that on which
his fame depends to-day. Meanwhile, at Eisenstadt he was kept busy
enough. It is true he was second to Werner, but Werner was both old and
old-fashioned, and devoted himself entirely to the chapel services and
music, leaving Haydn to look after the incessant concerts--each of them
interminable, as was the fashion then--the cantatas, instrumental
pieces, operas and operettas. Werner thought little of Haydn: he
regarded him as an adventurer and musical frivol; but Haydn, as became
the bigger man, esteemed Werner. There does not seem to have been any
friction; Haydn was always shrewd enough to avoid friction, which means
wasted energy, and the problem, if problem it was, of double mastership
was solved by Werner's death on March 5, 1766. Henceforth Haydn was
alone and supreme.
Haydn's magnificent patron and master played the baryton, and it was one
of his duties to write pieces for it. Of these there remain many, mostly
uninteresting. It was always his avowed aim to please his patron--that
done he was satisfied; but in an evil hour he thought to please him
better by learning to play the baryton--a singular bit of
short-sightedness on Haydn's part. He quickly discovered his error:
Prince Nicolaus liked the instrument best when played by princely hands
in the princely manner. Haydn limited himself for the future to writing
for it. With his band, we are told, he got on excellently, and what with
rehearsing them and conducting them and composing, every hour of the day
brought its task. The band consisted at the beginning of sixteen chosen
players, but the number was increased afterwards. The only events in his
life were the smaller or larger fêtes for which he prepared the music.
For instance, in 1763 Anton, the son of Nicolaus, was married, and
Haydn composed a pastoral, _Acis and Galatea_, which was duly performed.
Again, in 1764 Prince Nicolaus attended the coronation of the Archduke
Joseph; his return was one of these events, and to celebrate it Haydn
wrote a grand cantata. A Life of him at this period would be a list of
his compositions, with a few notes about the occasions that prompted
them. Such a list I am not minded to prepare. The publishers' catalogues
exist, and as for the various fêtes, one was very much like another; and
those folk who do not find accounts of them insufferably tedious can
find out about them in one of the larger biographies.
In 1767 the Prince, Haydn, band and all, took up their residence at the
palace of Esterház. A few singers and players were left at Eisenstadt to
keep up the chapel services, and doubtless had an easy time; the rest
were worked almost to death. Esterház was a gorgeous, if solitary,
residence. Built on a morass far from the busy world, it was the scene
of constant hospitality and great functions. There were two
theatres--one, as I understand the matter, entirely for marionette
shows; the scenery was regarded at the time as excellent. Most of the
operas were sung in Italian by Italian singers; even books of the words
were printed. In short, the opera at the Palace of Esterház seems to
have been in no respect very different from the fashionable opera of
to-day. Singers were engaged for a year or a longer period; casual
artists called, and were engaged for one performance or more, and having
been rewarded according to their deserts, passed on their way. Great
personages visited the Prince in state, and were regally entertained,
Haydn everlastingly writing special music. Maria Theresa stayed for
three days in 1773, and thus we get the Empress Theresa symphony in C,
also two operas of sorts, _L'Infideltà Delusa_ and _Philemon and
Baucis_, specially composed for the occasion. What with retinues of
servants bustling about, banquets, balls, hunting-parties, dramas,
operas, concerts, the scene must have always been lively enough--there
can have been nothing of stagnation. When the Prince went on visits he
also travelled in state, and took his band and singers with him. When at
home, we read, the artists spent their spare time at the café; but I
cannot think that Haydn ever had much leisure.
It was not until 1769 that Prince, conductor, band, singers and all
visited Vienna. Nothing remarkable occurred. To celebrate the great and
joyful event Haydn wrote one opera, _La Spezziata_, which was given at
the house of von Sommerau--then they went back to Esterház, and saw no
more of Vienna for eight years. Of this eight years there is nothing to
set down save a list of compositions. How the man, such a man--for in
his quiet methodical way he loved pleasure--stood it at all, I don't
know, but stand it he did. However, in 1776-1777 there was a little
diversion. Haydn composed an opera, _La Vera Constanza,_ for the Court
theatre in Vienna, and intrigues for some rival composer--his name does
not matter--began. A rival won the first round in the contest; his opera
was produced. In disgust Haydn had his score taken away, and it was soon
sung at Esterház. I suppose Haydn would have considered it a sin to
waste good material. Moreover, it was given at a suburban theatre of
Vienna, and it proved so far successful that Artaria, the publisher,
thought it worth while to engrave half a dozen songs and a duet from it.
The opera which beat his at the Court theatre is utterly forgotten; we
know of the other because of the composer's name. Some years later, in
1784, he had another touch of the ways of men in the busy world, sent,
perhaps, to reconcile him to his habitual seclusion. As far back as 1771
he had written his first oratorio--which I am not ashamed to say I have
never looked at--_Il Ritorno di Tobia_. It was performed, apparently
with éclat, by the Vienna Tonkünstler Societät, of which body Haydn
wished to become a member. He put down his name, and paid his
subscription, and was not a little surprised to learn that the condition
on which alone he would be elected was that he should compose works for
the society whenever he was asked. Now, those works would have become
the society's property, if only because they alone would have the
scores, and Haydn was a busy man, a man of European reputation, whose
music was worth money, and a shrewd business man, who saw no fun in
throwing money away. His annoyance may be conceived. He withdrew his
subscription--it is a wonder they would let him have it--and would have
nothing to do with the society until after his return from England in
1791, when the feud was ended, and he was triumphantly elected senior
assessor--whatever that may be. What the society was thinking in the
first instance I cannot guess, unless it was that a mere professional
composer and Kapellmeister should pay double, or considerably more than
double, for the honour of belonging to so distinguished a body of
amateurs. Anyhow, in the long run Haydn was so well pleased with them
that he seems to have made over to them _The Creation_ and _The
Seasons_, from which they derived profits that enabled them to keep
their heads above water when darker days came. Long before this date,
however, honours were being thrown at him. His opera, _L'Isolu
Disabilite_, to Metastasio's words, was sung in concert form at Vienna
in 1779, and the Accademia Filarmonica of Modena made him a member;
Haydn sent the score to the King of Spain, who repaid the compliment
with a gold snuff-box. In the same year he got a little relief from the
unbroken routine of his duties, for the theatre at Esterház was burnt
to the ground, and Prince Nicolaus, seeing no means of passing his
evenings, took a trip to Paris. Whether, from Haydn's point of view, he
did well or not is open to question; for a fiddler named Polzelli had
come to Esterház, and Haydn could find nothing better to do than flirt
with his wife Luigia. He did more than flirt--he went a trifle further,
and the lady took full advantage of his infatuation. She everlastingly
importuned him for money, and made him sign a promise to marry her if
ever he should be free to do so. Finally, the trouble came to an end
somehow; but in his will Haydn left the lady an allowance for life.
The new theatre was built, and reopened in 1780 with a representation of
_La Fideltà Premiare_. This pleased every one so much that it was given
once at a concert under Haydn's direction, that the Emperor Joseph might
hear it, and it led to Artaria, who was a very great gun in the
publishing line of business, taking him up in serious earnest. Life went
on much as it had done before the fire, or, if it was not quite so
monotonous, it was still dull enough. Honours came to him from abroad,
and when in Vienna he made the acquaintance of many more or less
celebrated men. Michael Kelly is well worth reading on the subject, for
Michael was no fool, and very much more than an ordinary
celebrity-hunter. Haydn's friendship with Mozart is the most
interesting feature of this period, and a very beautiful incident in the
lives of two men of genius. Mozart, said Haydn, was the greatest
composer then living; Mozart regarded Haydn as a father, and dedicated
some quartets to him in phrases revealing the deepest affection. The
intimacy ended when Haydn left, towards the end of 1790, on his first
trip to England; in 1791 Mozart perished miserably, and was laid in a
pauper's grave--the man whom Haydn called the greatest composer of the
time was buried by the parish, and in 1792 Haydn returned triumphantly
from England, his brow wreathed with laurel, figuratively, and his
pockets crammed with English notes and gold, literally. There are a few
other odds and ends worth mentioning. His opera, _Orlando Paladino,_
written in 1782, made a great hit, and under its German name of _Ritter
Roland_ was the last of his stage works to ride off the stage. In 1781
the Grand Duke Paul and his wife had heard some of his quartets, and the
Duchess was so pleased with them that she took lessons from the
composer, and made him a present. London, too, had heard of him, and was
thinking of him; and William Forster, the publisher, made arrangements
with him which resulted in the publication in England of eighty-two
symphonies and twenty-four quartets, not to mention other works. In 1785
he produced one of the most beautiful of his works, _The Seven Words_.
This, I must own, I have never heard in its original form. It was
commissioned by some priests of a church at Cadiz: seven slow movements
to be played between meditations to be spoken on the words of Christ on
the Cross. In this shape it became well known, and, later, Haydn himself
conducted it in London as a _Passione Instrumentale_. The theme inspired
him, and it was a further inspiration to add words and arrange the music
for chorus. Nothing he had composed up to this, whether for church or
theatre or concert, matched it for a strange blend of the pathetic and
the sublime. Had he died in 1790 his name might have lived by this work
alone. In a style as different from Bach's and Handel's as their styles
were different from Palestrina's and Byrde's, he proved himself one of
the mighty brotherhood who knew how to write sacred music. It was first
given with the words at Eisenstadt in 1797, and it is noteworthy that
the last time he directed his own music in public, in 1807, it was _The
Seven Words_, and not _The Creation_ nor _The Seasons_, that was
rendered.
This long chapter of Haydn's life, so uneventful outwardly, was now
about to close. Negotiations had been opened before by Cramer with a
view of inducing him to come to London, but nothing came of them. In
1787 Salomon, an enterprising fiddler, got Bland, a music publisher, to
try what could be done. Bland was unsuccessful, but he got a quartet
from Haydn in this wise. Contrary to his custom of receiving no one
until he was completely dressed, wig and all, in the ceremonious
eighteenth-century fashion, Haydn was trying to shave when Bland was
shown in. He was also, it would seem, using the Rohrau equivalent for
very bad language, for the razor was taking away his serenity of mind
and bits of his skin. "I would give my last quartet for a decent razor!"
he exclaimed wrathfully. Bland ran out and brought back a razor, and it
seemed to be a good one, for history, which never lies, says he got the
quartet. In 1790 Salomon made another attempt, this time in person, and
was repulsed. He had got as far as Cologne on his way back to England,
when he heard news that sent him flying again to Vienna as fast as
wheels and horses' legs could carry him.
The Esterhazy chapter of Haydn's life had closed with something of a
snap. On September 28 Prince Nicolaus died. He had started by being
Haydn's patron and master, but long before the end he had become his
friend. Haydn never dreamed of leaving, never even of going to England
on a short visit, without his permission and full approval. He was put
in his grave, and his magnificence would be all unremembered to-day but
for his connexion with a great composer. Haydn had been in the service
of him and his predecessor, Prince Anton, just on thirty years. Haydn
himself was now close on sixty years old. He might have retired now, as
a good Kapellmeister should, and lived in obscure comfort for the rest
of his days. The next Prince, another Anton, dismissed the band and
singers, but to the annuity of 1,000 florins which Nicolaus had left
Haydn he added 400 florins.
The story of these thirty years is soon told. What a fantastic mode of
life it seems, how farcical, grotesque, in its dull routine, for a
genius who was at work steadily building up new art-forms. Haydn, we are
told, rose every morning at six, carefully shaved and dressed, drank a
cup of black coffee, and worked till noon. Then he ate, and in the
afternoon he worked again, and ate and worked until it was time to go to
bed. He was a little man, very dark of skin, and deeply pock-marked, and
he had a large and ugly nose. His lower jaw and under lip projected, and
he had very kindly eyes. He was far from being vain about his personal
appearance, but he took an immense amount of pains with it, for all
that. Ladies ran much after him, too. But he cannot have spared them
much of his time. All who knew him were agreed about his methodical
habits, and we have only to look at a catalogue of his achievements, and
to consider that on every day of the week he had both rehearsals and
concerts, to realize that his entire time must have been eaten up by the
writing of music and the preparation and direction of musical
performances. Undoubtedly he wearied of it at times, though he said
that on the whole it had been good for him, and that by being so much
thrown upon his own resources he had been forced to become original. As
to this, I beg leave to be sceptical; and at any rate his finest work
was done when he was free of his bondage, and actively engaged in the
busy world. There is a note of regret for the irremediable in that
remark of his. It is as if he had said: "True, it was dull, insufferably
tedious, but, after all, it had its compensations." How his band and
singers tolerated the life I cannot tell. They lived together in a sort
of family, but their café meetings at Esterház were a poor substitute
for the distractions of the capital. One might assume that they took
their holidays in turns--for many had wives and children whom they were
obliged to leave behind--but a well-authenticated story destroys that
fond belief. It is the story of the Farewell Symphony. The artists,
wearying of so long a sojourn so far away from home, asked Haydn to
intercede for them with the Prince. Haydn and his folk were always on
the very best of terms, and he did intercede for them, in his own canny
way. He composed a symphony in which, towards the end, player after
player finishes his part, blows out his candle, packs up his instrument,
and leaves the room, until at last one solitary violin is left
industriously playing on. The Prince took the hint. "Since they are all
gone," he remarked, "we might as well go too." And he gave orders for
the return to Vienna, which he detested.
The eighteenth century lies behind us like a fruitful land, with the
touch of the old-world distinction on it, the old-world aroma clinging
to it. On paper, on canvas, on wooden panels, it is very picturesque in
its queer stately way, if very artificial. The sunlight seems always to
bask on it. It reminds one of a perpetual summer Sunday afternoon in a
small provincial town. But its voice speaks in its music, often bitterly
sad and sweetly regretful, and there is little hint of sunshine or
careless merrymaking there. Bach is steeped in cloister gloom, with
frequent moments of religious ecstasy. Haydn is generally cheerful in a
humdrum sort of way, but when his real feelings begin to speak, not even
Mozart is sadder. They were human beings with greedy, desiring souls in
them, these men and women of the dead eighteenth century, not delicate
painted figures on screens and panels, and none but actors would be
consoled by their undoubted picturesqueness when they are being tortured
or ennuied. They saw their youth slipping away uneventfully, and dark
old age coming steadily upon them. The gay bustle and hurry-skurry of
arriving and departing parties, the great dames and languid gentlemen
lounging on the terraces, the feasts and dignified dances--these are
very pleasant for us to look back on, but what did they seem to the
human beings, the players, actors and singers, who watched the show go
on? The great ones were in their element: at Esterház or elsewhere
_their_ world and mode of life were the same--but the poor artists?...
The single café was a poor compensation for a rollicking life of change.
The exile from Paris--the _avocat_, or _notaire_, or _docteur_ in the
provinces--how he hankers after the electrically lit boulevards, and
wonders whether he dare run up for a day or two, and what will happen,
there and here, if he does. And Haydn--we can fancy him, after brilliant
evenings at Esterház standing, looking Viennawards on still nights, the
starry immensity above him and the quiet black woods and waters around
him--the gay lights of Vienna must have danced before his inner vision,
and his soul must have risen in revolt, full of angry desire to be once
again in the midst of the happy chattering tide of life in the great
town. No other great composer could have stuck to his task as he did.
Mozart would have forgotten his duties; Beethoven would purposely have
neglected them. But Haydn's Prince willed the thing to be done, and
Haydn acquiesced. The patient blood of generations of industrious,
persevering, plodding peasant labourers was in him; and perhaps his
early training under Frankh and Reutter counted for something. He went
on unflinchingly, outwardly calm--calm even in the eyes of languid
eighteenth-century people--inwardly living strenuously as he battled
with and conquered his art-problems.