Books: Haydn

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Welcome, great master! to our favoured isle, Already partial to
thy name and style; Long may thy fountain of invention run In
streams as rapid as it first begun; While skill for each
fantastic whim provides, And certain science ev'ry current
guides! Oh, may thy days, from human suff'rings, free, Be blest
with glory and felicity, With full fruition, to a distant hour,
Of all thy magic and creative pow'r! Blest in thyself, with
rectitude of mind, And blessing, with thy talents, all mankind!
Like "the man Sterne" after the publication of Tristram Shandy,
he was soon deep in social engagements for weeks ahead. "I could
dine out every day," he informs his friends in Germany. Shortly
after his arrival he was conducted by the Academy of Ancient
Music into a "very handsome room" adjoining the Freemasons' Hall,
and placed at a table where covers were laid for 200. "It was
proposed that I should take a seat near the top, but as it so
happened that I had dined out that very day, and ate more than
usual, I declined the honour, excusing myself under the pretext
of not being very well; but in spite of this, I could not get off
drinking the health, in Burgundy, of the harmonious gentlemen
present. All responded to it, but at last allowed me to go home."
This sort of thing strangely contrasted with the quiet, drowsy
life of Esterhaz; and although Haydn evidently felt flattered by
so much attention, he often expressed a wish that he might escape
in order to have more peace for work.

Ideas of London

His ideas about London were mixed and hesitating. He was chiefly
impressed by the size of the city, a fact which the Londoner of
today can only fully appreciate when he remembers that in Haydn's
time Regent Street had not been built and Lisson Grove was a
country lane. Mendelssohn described the metropolis as "that smoky
nest which is fated to be now and ever my favourite residence."
But Haydn's regard was less for the place itself than for the
people and the music. The fogs brought him an uncommonly severe
attack of rheumatism, which he naively describes as "English,"
and obliged him to wrap up in flannel from head to foot. The
street noises proved a great distraction--almost as much as they
proved to Wagner in 1839, when the composer of "Lohengrin" had to
contend with an organ-grinder at each end of the street! He
exclaimed in particular against "the cries of the common people
selling their wares." It was very distracting, no doubt, for, as
a cynic has said, one cannot compose operas or write books or
paint pictures in the midst of a row. Haydn desired above all
things quiet for his work, and so by-and-by, as a solace for the
evils which afflicted his ear, he removed himself from Great
Pulteney Street to Lisson Grove--"in the country amid lovely
scenery, where I live as if I were in a monastery."

For the present the dining and the entertaining went on. The 12th
of January found him at the "Crown and Anchor" in the Strand,
where the Anacreonatic Society expressed their respect and
admiration in the usual fashion.

Haydn at Court

The 18th of the same month was the Queen's birthday, and Haydn
was invited to a Court ball in the evening. This was quite an
exceptional distinction, for he had not yet been "presented" at
Court. Probably he owed it to the Prince of Wales, afterwards
George IV. The Prince was a musical amateur, like his father and
his grandfather, whose enthusiasm for Handel it is hardly
necessary to recall. He played the 'cello--"not badly for a
Prince," to parody Boccherini's answer to his royal master--and
liked to take his part in glees and catches. Haydn was charmed by
his affability. "He is the handsomest man on God's earth," wrote
the composer. "He has an extraordinary love for music, and a
great deal of feeling, but very little money." These courtesies
to Haydn may perhaps be allowed to balance the apparent
incivility shown to Beethoven and Weber, who sent compositions to
the same royal amateur that were never so much as acknowledged.

But even the attentions of princes may become irksome and
unprofitable. Haydn soon found that his health and his work were
suffering from the flood of social engagements which London
poured upon him. The dinner hour at this time was six o'clock. He
complained that the hour was too late, and made a resolve to dine
at home at four. He wanted his mornings for composition, and if
visitors must see him they would have to wait till afternoon.
Obviously he was beginning to tire of "the trivial round."

Unreasoning Rivalries

The Salomon concerts should have begun in January, but London, as
it happened, was suffering from one of those unreasoning
rivalries which made a part of Handel's career so miserable, and
helped to immortalize the names of Gluck and Piccini. It is
hardly worth reviving the details of such ephemeral contests now.
In the present case the factionists were to some extent swayed by
financial interests; to a still greater extent by professional
jealousies. The trouble seems to have arisen originally in
connection with Gallini's preparations for the opening of a new
Opera House in the Haymarket. Salomon had engaged Cappelletti and
David as his principal vocalists; but these, it appeared, were
under contract not to sing in public before the opening of the
Opera House. One faction did not want to have the Opera House
opened at all. They were interested in the old Pantheon, and
contended that a second Italian Opera House was altogether
unnecessary.

Temporarily eclipsed

Salomon's first concert, already postponed to February 25, had
been fixed for the 11th of March, on which date David, by special
permission, was to appear "whether the Opera house was open or
not." The delay was extremely awkward for both Haydn and Salomon,
particularly for Haydn. He had been brought to London with beat
of drum, and here he was compelled to hide his light while the
directors of the professional concerts shot ahead of him and
gained the ear of the public before he could assert his
superiority. By this time also the element of professional
jealousy had come into free play. Depreciatory paragraphs
appeared in the public prints "sneering at the composer as 'a
nine days' wonder,' whom closer acquaintance would prove to be
inferior to either Cramer or Clementi; and alluding to the
'proverbial avarice' of the Germans as tempting so many artists,
who met with scanty recognition from their own countrymen to
herald their arrival in England with such a flourish of trumpets
as should charm the money out of the pockets of easily-gulled
John Bull." These pleasantries were continued on rather different
lines, when at length Haydn was in a position to justify the
claims made for him.

Haydn, meanwhile, had been rehearsing the symphony for his
opening concert. Two points are perhaps worth noting here: First,
the size and strength of the Salomon Orchestra; and second, the
fact that Haydn did not, as every conductor does now, direct his
forces, baton in hand. The orchestra numbered between thirty-five
and forty performers--a very small company compared with our
Handel Festival and Richter [sidebar: Band and Baton] Orchestras,
but in Haydn's time regarded as quite sufficiently strong. There
were sixteen violins, four tenors, three 'celli, four double
basses, flutes, oboes, bassoons, trumpets and drums.

Salomon played the first violin and led the orchestra, and Haydn
sat at the harpsichord, keeping the band together by an
occasional chord or two, as the practice then was. Great
composers have not always been great conductors, but Haydn had a
winning way with his band, and generally succeeded in getting
what he wanted. An interesting anecdote is told by Dies of his
first experience with the Salomon Orchestra. The symphony began
with three single notes, which [sidebar: A Rehersal Incident] the
orchestra played much too loudly; Haydn called for less tone a
second and a third time, and still was dissatisfied. He was
growing impatient. At this point he overheard a German player
whisper to a neighbour in his own language: "If the first three
notes don't please him, how shall we get through all the rest?"
Thereupon, calling for the loan of a violin, he illustrated his
meaning to such purpose that the band answered to his
requirements in the first attempt. Haydn was naturally at a great
disadvantage with an English orchestra by reason of his ignorance
of the language. It may be true, as he said, that the language of
music "is understood all over the world," but one cannot talk to
an orchestra in crotchets and semi-breves. The Hanover Square
Rooms

At length the date of the first concert arrived, and a brilliant
audience rewarded the enterprise, completely filling the Hanover
Square Rooms, at that time the principal concert hall in London.
It had been opened in 1775 by J. C. Bach, the eleventh son of the
great Sebastian, when the advertisements announced that "the
ladies' tickets are red and the gentlemen's black." It was there
that, two years after the date of which we are writing, "Master
Hummel, from Vienna," gave his first benefit; Liszt appeared in
1840, when the now familiar term "recital" was first used;
Rubinstein made his English debut in 1842; and in the same year
Mendelssohn conducted his Scotch Symphony for the first time in
England. In 1844 the "wonderful little Joachim," then a youth of
thirteen in a short jacket, made the first of his many subsequent
visits to London, and played in the old "Rooms."

Hoops and Swords

So much for the associations of the concert hall in which Haydn
directed some of his finest symphonies. And what about the
audiences of Haydn's time? It was the day of the Sedan chair,
when women waddled in hoops, like that of the lady mentioned in
the Spectator, who appeared "as if she stood in a large drum."
Even the royal princesses were, in Pope's phrase, "armed in ribs
of steel" so wide that the Court attendants had to assist their
ungainly figures through the doorways. Swords were still being
worn as a regulation part of full dress, and special weapons were
always provided at a grand concert for the use of the
instrumental solo performers, who, when about to appear on the
platform, were girt for the occasion by an attendant, known as
the "sword-bearer." (Footnote: See Musical Haunts in London, F.
G. Edwards, quoting Dr. W. H. Cummings.)

Haydn's first concert, we have said, was an immense success.
Burney records that his appearance in the orchestra "seemed to
have an electrical effect on all present, and he never remembered
a performance where greater enthusiasm was displayed." A wave of
musical excitement appears to have been passing through London,
for on this very evening both Covent Garden and Drury Lane
Theatres were packed with audiences drawn together by the
oratorio performances there. Haydn was vastly pleased at having
the slow movement of his symphony encored--an unusual occurrence
in those days--and he spoke of it afterwards as worthy of mention
in his biography. Fresh from the dinner-table, the audience
generally fell asleep during the slow movements! When the novelty
of the Salomon concerts had worn off, many of the listeners
lapsed into their usual somnolence. Most men in Haydn's position
would have resented such inattention by an outburst of temper.
Haydn took it good-humouredly, and resolved to have his little
joke.

The "Surprise" Symphony

He wrote the well-known "Surprise" Symphony. The slow movement of
this work opens and proceeds in the most subdued manner, and at
the moment when the audience may be imagined to have comfortably
settled for their nap a sudden explosive fortissimo chord is
introduced. "There all the women will scream," said Haydn, with
twinkling eyes. A contemporary critic read

quite a different "programme" into it. "The 'Surprise,'" he
wrote, "might not be inaptly likened to the situation of a
beautiful shepherdess who, lulled to slumber by the murmur of a
distant waterfall, starts alarmed by the unexpected firing of a
fowling-piece." One can fancy the composer's amusement at this
highly-imaginative interpretation of his harmless bit of waggery.

Gallic Excitement

The same success which attended Haydn's first concert marked the
rest of the series. The Prince of Wales's presence at the second
concert no doubt gave a certain "lead" to the musical public. We
read in one of the Gallic newspapers: "It is truly wonderful what
sublime and august thoughts this master weaves into his works.
Passages often occur which it is impossible to listen to without
becoming excited--we are carried away by admiration, and are
forced to applaud with hand and mouth. The Frenchmen here cannot
restrain their transports in soft adagios; they will clap their
hands in loud applause and thus mar the effect."

In the midst of all this enthusiasm the factionists were keeping
up their controversy about the opening of Gallini's Theatre.
Gallini had already engaged the services of Haydn, together with
an orchestra led by Salomon, but nothing could be done without
the Lord Chamberlain's license for the performance of operas. To
prevent the issue of that license was the avowed object of the
Pantheon management and their friends. The fight was rendered all
the more lively when the Court divided itself between the
opposing interests. "The rival theatre," wrote Horace Walpole,
"is said to be magnificent and lofty, but it is doubtful whether
it will be suffered to come to light; in short the contest will
grow political; ' Dieu et mon Droit' (the King) supporting the
Pantheon, and 'Ich dien' (the Prince of Wales) countenancing the
Haymarket. It is unlucky that the amplest receptacle is to hold
the minority."

Cantatas, Catches and Choruses

That was how it turned out. The Lord Chamberlain finally refused
his license for operatic performances, and Gallini had to be
content with a license for "entertainments of music and dancing."
He opened his house on the 20th of March, and continued during
the season to give mixed entertainments twice a week. Various
works of Haydn's were performed at these entertainments,
including a cantata composed for David, an Italian catch for
seven voices, and the chorus known as "The Storm," a setting of
Peter Pindar's "Hark, the wild uproar of the waves." An opera,"
Orfeo ed Euridice," to which we have already referred, was almost
completed, but its production had necessarily to be abandoned, a
circumstance which must have occasioned him considerable regret
in view of the store he set upon his dramatic work.

Benefit and Other Concerts

On the 16th of May he had a benefit concert, when the receipts
exceeded by £150 the £200 which had been guaranteed. A second
benefit was given on May 30, when "La Passione Instrumentale"
(the "Seven Words" written for Cadiz) was performed. This work
was given again on June 10, at the benefit concert of the
"little" Clement, a boy violinist who grew into the famous artist
for whom Beethoven wrote his Violin Concerto. On this occasion
Haydn conducted for Clement, and it is interesting to observe
that Clement took the first violin at the last concert Haydn ever
attended, in March 1808.

Haydn on Handel

In the note-book he kept while in London, one of the entries
reads: "Anno 1791, the last great concert, with 885 persons, was
held in Westminster, Anno 1792, it was transferred to St
Margaret's Chapel, with 200 performers. This evoked criticism."
Haydn here refers to the Handel Commemoration Festival, the sixth
and last of the century. He attended that of 1791, and was much
impressed with the grandeur of the performances. A place had been
reserved for him near the King's box, and when the "Hallelujah
Chorus" was sung, and the whole audience rose to their feet, he
wept like a child. "Handel is the master of us all," he sobbed.
No one knew the value of Handel's choral work better than Haydn.
After listening at the Concert of Antient Music to the chorus,
"The Nations tremble," from "Joshua," he told Shield that "he had
long been acquainted with music, but never knew half its powers
before he heard it, as he was perfectly certain that only one
inspired author ever did, or ever would, pen so sublime a
composition." (Footnote: See the Appendix to Shield's
Introduction to Harmony.)

Oxford Doctor of Music

Haydn was no Handel, either as man or artist. Handel declined the
Doctor of Music degree with the characteristic remark: "What the
devil I throw my money away for that the blockhead wish?" Haydn
did not decline it, though probably enough he rated the
distinction no higher than Handel did. In the month of July he
went down to the Oxford Commemoration, and was then invested with
the degree. Handel's latest biographer, Mr. W. S. Rockstro, says
that the Oxford fees would have cost Handel 100 pounds. Haydn's
note of the expense is not so alarming: "I had to pay one and a
half guineas for the bell peals at Oxforth [sic] when I received
the doctor's degree, and half a guinea for the robe." He seems to
have found the ceremonies a little trying, and not unlikely he
imagined himself cutting rather a ridiculous figure in his
gorgeous robe of cherry and cream-coloured silk. At the concert
following the investiture he seized the gown, and, raising it in
the air, exclaimed in English, "I thank you." "I had to walk
about for three days in this guise, "he afterwards wrote, "and
only wish my Vienna friends could have seen me." Haydn's
"exercise " for the degree was the following "Canon cancrizans, a
tre," set to the words, "Thy voice, O harmony, is divine."

[figure: a musical score excerpt]

This was subsequently used for the first of the Ten Commandments,
the whole of which he set to canons during his stay in London.
Three grand concerts formed a feature of the Oxford
Commemoration.

The "Oxford" Symphony

At the second of these a symphony in G, written in 1787 or 1788,
and since known as the "Oxford," was performed, with the composer
at the organ. He had taken a new symphony with him for the
occasion, but owing to lack of time for rehearsals, the earlier
work was substituted. Of this latter, the Morning Chronicle wrote
that "a more wonderful composition never was heard. The applause
given to Haydn was enthusiastic; but the merit of the work, in
the opinion of all the musicians present, exceeded all praise."

Holiday Relaxations

The London season having now come to an end, Haydn proceeded to
recruit his energies by paying visits to distinguished people at
their country quarters, taking part in river excursions, picnics,
and the like. Prince Esterhazy had sent him a pressing summons to
return for a great fete which was being organized in honour of
the Emperor, but having entered into new engagements with Salomon
and others, he found it impossible to comply. A less indulgent
employer would have requited him with instant dismissal, but all
that the prince said when they afterwards met was, "Ah, Haydn!
you might have saved me 40,000 florins." His longest visit at
this time was spent with Mr. Brassey, a Lombard Street banker,
and ancestor of the present peer. "The banker," he says, "once
cursed because he enjoyed too much happiness in this world." He
gave lessons to Miss Brassey, and "enjoyed the repose of country
life in the midst of a family circle all cordially devoted to
him." In November he was the guest at two Guildhall banquets--
that of the outgoing Lord Mayor on the 5th and that of his
successor on the 9th. Of these entertainments he has left a
curious account, and as the memorandum is in English it may,
perhaps, be reproduced here. It runs as follows in Lady Wallace's
translation of the letters:

I was invited to the Lord Mayor's banquet on November 5. At the
first table, No. r, the new Lord Mayor and his wife dined, the
Lord Chancellor, the two sheriffs, the Duke of Lids [Leeds], the
minister Pitt, and others of the highest rank in the Cabinet. I
was seated at No. 2 with Mr. Sylvester, the most celebrated
advocate and first King's counsel in London. In this hall, called
the Geld Hall [Guildhall], were six tables, besides others in the
adjoining room. About twelve hundred persons altogether dined,
and everything was in the greatest splendour. The dishes were
very nice and well dressed. Wines of every kind in abundance. We
sat down to dinner at six o'clock and rose from table at eight.
The guests accompanied the Lord Mayor both before and after
dinner in their order of precedence. There were various
ceremonies, sword bearing, and a kind of golden crown, all
attended by a band of wind instruments. After dinner, the whole
of the aristocratic guests of No. 1 withdrew into a private room
prepared for them, to have tea and coffee, while the rest of the
company were conducted into another room. At nine o'clock No. 1
repaired to a small saloon, when the ball began. There was a
raised platform in this room, reserved for the highest nobility,
where the Lord Mayor and his wife were seated on a throne.
Dancing then commenced in due order of precedence, but only one
couple at a time, just as on January 6,the King's birthday. There
were raised benches on both sides of this room with four steps,
where the fair sex chiefly prevailed. Nothing but minuets were
danced in this saloon, but I could only remain for a quarter of
an hour, first, because the heat of so many people assembled in
such a narrow space was so oppressive, and, secondly, on account
of the bad music for dancing, the whole orchestra consisting of
two violins and a violoncello; the minuets were more in the
Polish style than in our own, or that of the Italians. I
proceeded into another room, which really was more like a
subterranean cave than anything else; they were dancing English
dances, and the music here was a degree better, as a drum was
played by one of the violinists! [Footnote: This might be
effected by the violin player having the drumstick tied to his
right foot, which was sometimes done.]

I went on to the large hall, where we had dined, and there the
orchestra was more numerous, and the music more tolerable. They
were also dancing English dances, but only opposite the raised
platform where the four first sets had dined with the Lord Mayor.
The other tables were all filled afresh with gentlemen, who as
usual drank freely the whole night. The strangest thing of all
was that one part of the company went on dancing without hearing
a single note of the music, for first at one table, and then at
another, songs were shouted, or toasts given, amidst the most
crazy uproar and clinking of glasses and hurrahs. This hall and
all the other rooms were lighted with lamps, of which the
effluvia was most disagreeable, especially in the small ball-
room. It was remarkable that the Lord Mayor had no need of a
carving-knife, as a man in the centre of the table carved
everything for him. One man stood before the Lord Mayor and
another behind him, shouting out vociferously all the toasts in
their order according to etiquette, and after each toast came a
flourish of kettledrums and trumpets. No health was more
applauded than that of Mr. Pitt. There seemed to be no order. The
dinner cost 6,000 British pounds, one-half of which is paid by
the Lord Mayor, and the other half by the two sheriffs.

Royalty Again

In this same month--November--he visited the Marionettes at the
Fantoccini Theatre in Saville Row, prompted, no doubt, by old
associations with Esterhaz. On the 24th he went to Oatlands to
visit the Duke of York, who had just married the Princess of
Prussia. "I remained two days," he says, "and enjoyed many marks
of graciousness and honour... On the third day the Duke had me
taken twelve miles towards town with his own horses. The Prince
of Wales asked for my portrait. For two days we made music for
four hours each evening, i.e., from ten o'clock till two hours
after midnight. Then we had supper, and at three o'clock went to
bed." After this he proceeded to Cambridge to see the university,
thence to Sir. Patrick Blake's at Langham. Of the Cambridge visit
he writes: "Each university has behind it a very roomy and
beautiful garden, besides stone bridges, in order to afford
passage over the stream which winds past. The King's Chapel is
famous for its carving. It is all of stone, but so delicate that
nothing more beautiful could have been made of wood. It has
already stood for 400 years, and everybody judges its age at
about ten years, because of the firmness and peculiar whiteness
of the stone. The students bear themselves like those at Oxford,
but it is said they have better instructors. There are in all 800
students."

From Langham he went to the house of a Mr. Shaw, to find in his
hostess the "most beautiful woman I ever saw." Haydn, it may be
remarked in passing, was always meeting the "most beautiful
woman." At one time she was a Mrs. Hodges, another of his London
admirers. When quite an old man he still preserved a ribbon which
Mrs. Shaw had worn during his visit, and on which his name was
embroidered in gold.

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