In Josef Haydn we have one of the
classic composers, a sweet, gentle spirit, who suffered
many privations in early life, and through his own
industrious efforts rose to positions of respect and
honor, the result of unremitting toil and devotion
to a noble ideal. Like many of the other great
musicians, through hardship and sorrow he won his
place among the elect.
Fifteen leagues south of Vienna, amid
marshy flats along the river Leitha, lies the small
village of Rehrau. At the end of the straggling
street which constitutes the village, stood a low thatched
cottage and next to it a wheelwright’s shop,
with a small patch of greensward before it. The
master wheelwright, Mathias Haydn, was sexton, too,
of the little church on the hill. He was a worthy
man and very religious. A deep love for music
was part of the man’s nature, and it was shared
to a large extent by his wife Maria. Every Sunday
evening he would bring out his harp, on which he had
taught himself to play, and he and his wife would
sing songs and hymns, accompanied by the harp.
The children, too, would add their voices to the concert.
The little boy Josef, sat near his father and watched
his playing with rapt attention. Sometimes he
would take two sticks and make believe play the violin,
just as he had seen the village schoolmaster do.
And when he sang hymns with the others, his voice
was sweet and true. The father watched the child
with interest, and a new hope rose within him.
His own life had been a bitter disappointment, for
he had been unable to satisfy his longing for a knowledge
of the art he loved. Perhaps Josef might one
day become a musician-indeed he might even
rise to be Capellmeister.
Little Josef was born March 31, 1732.
The mother had a secret desire that the boy should
join the priesthood, but the father, as we have seen,
hoped he would make a musical career, and determined,
though poor in this world’s goods, to aid him
in every possible way.
About this time a distant relative,
one Johann Mathias Frankh by name, arrived at the
Haydn cottage on a visit. He was a schoolmaster
at Hainburg, a little town four leagues away.
During the regular evening concert he took particular
notice of Josef and his toy violin. The child’s
sweet voice indicated that he had the makings of a
good musician. At last he said: “If
you will let me take Sepperl, I will see he is properly
taught; I can see he promises well.”
The parents were quite willing and
as for little Sepperl, he was simply overjoyed, for
he longed to learn more about the beautiful music
which filled his soul. He went with his new cousin,
as he called Frankh, without any hesitation, and with
the expectation that his childish day dreams were
to be realized.
A new world indeed opened to the six
year old boy, but it was not all beautiful. Frankh
was a careful and strict teacher; Josef not only was
taught to sing well, but learned much about various
instruments. He had school lessons also.
But his life in other ways was hard and cheerless.
The wife of his cousin treated him with the utmost
indifference, never looking after his clothing or his
well being in any way. After a time his destitute
and neglected appearance was a source of misery to
the refined, sensitive boy, but he tried to realize
that present conditions could not last forever, and
he bravely endeavored to make the best of them.
Meanwhile the training of his voice was well advanced
and when not in school he could nearly always be found
in church, listening to the organ and the singing.
Not long after, he was admitted to the choir, where
his sweet young voice joined in the church anthems.
Always before his mind was a great city where he knew
he would find the most beautiful music-the
music of his dreams. That city was Vienna, but
it lay far away. Josef looked down at his ragged
clothing and wondered if he would ever see that magical
city.
One morning his cousin told him there
would be a procession through the town in honor of
a prominent citizen who had just passed away.
A drummer was needed and the cousin had proposed Josef.
He showed the boy how to make the strokes for a march,
with the result that Josef walked in the procession
and felt quite proud of this exhibition of his skill.
The very drum he used that day is preserved in the
little church at Hamburg.
A great event occurred in Josef’s
prospects at the end of his second year of school
life at Hamburg. The Capellmeister, Reutter by
name, of St. Stephen’s cathedral in Vienna,
came to see his friend, the pastor of Hamburg.
He happened to say he was looking for a few good voices
for the choir. “I can find you one at least,”
said the pastor; “he is a scholar of Frankh,
the schoolmaster, and has a sweet voice.”
Josef was sent for and the schoolmaster
soon returned leading him by the hand.
“Well my little fellow,”
said the Capellmeister, drawing him to his knee, “can
you make a shake?”
“No sir, but neither can my cousin Frankh.”
Reutter laughed at this frankness,
and then proceeded to show him how the shake was done.
Josef after a few trials was able to perform the shake
to the entire satisfaction of his teacher. After
testing him on a portion of a mass the Capellmeister
was willing to take him to the Cantorei or Choir school
of St. Stephen’s in Vienna. The boy’s
heart gave a great leap. Vienna, the city of
his dreams. And he was really going there!
He could scarcely believe in his good fortune.
If he could have known all that was to befall him
there, he might not have been so eager to go.
But he was only a little eight-year-old boy, and childhood’s
dreams are rosy.
Once arrived at the Cantorei, Josef
plunged into his studies with great fervor, and his
progress was most rapid. He was now possessed
with a desire to compose, but had not the slightest
idea how to go about such a feat. However, he
hoarded every scrap of music paper he could find and
covered it with notes. Reutter gave no encouragement
to such proceedings. One day he asked what the
boy was about, and when he heard the lad was composing
a “Salve Regina,” for twelve voices, he
remarked it would be better to write it for two voices
before attempting it in twelve. “And if
you must try your hand at composition,” added
Reutter more kindly, “write variations on the
motets and vespers which are played in church.”
As neither the Capellmeister nor any
of the teachers offered to show Josef the principles
of composition, he was thrown upon his own resources.
With much self denial he scraped together enough money
to buy two books which he had seen at the second hand
bookseller’s and which he had longed to possess.
One was Fox’s “Gradus ad Parnassum,”
a treatise on composition and counterpoint; the other
Matheson’s “The Complete Capellmeister.”
Happy in the possession of these books, Josef used
every moment outside of school and choir practise to
study them. He loved fun and games as well as
any boy, but music always came first. The desire
to perfect himself was so strong that he often added
several hours each day to those already required, working
sixteen or eighteen hours out of the twenty-four.
And thus a number of years slipped
away amid these happy surroundings. Little Josef
was now a likely lad of about fifteen years. It
was arranged that his younger brother Michael was
to come to the Cantorei. Josef looked eagerly
forward to this event, planning how he would help
the little one over the beginning and show him the
pleasant things that would happen to him in the new
life. But the elder brother could not foresee
the sorrow and privation in store for him. From
the moment Michael’s pure young voice filled
the vast spaces of the cathedral, it was plain that
Josef’s singing could not compete with it.
His soprano showed signs of breaking, and gradually
the principal solo parts, which had always fallen
to him, were given to the new chorister. On a
special church day, when there was more elaborate music,
the “Salve Regina,” which had always been
given to Josef, was sung so beautifully by the little
brother, that the Emperor and Empress were delighted,
and they presented the young singer with twenty ducats.
Poor Josef! He realized that
his place was virtually taken by the brother he had
welcomed so joyously only a short time before.
No one was to blame of course; it was one of those
things that could not be avoided. But what actually
caused him to leave St. Stephen’s was a boyish
prank played on one of the choir boys, who sat in front
of him. Taking up a new pair of shears lying
near, he snipped off, in a mischievous moment, the
boy’s pigtail. For this jest he was punished
and then dismissed from the school. He could hardly
realize it, in his first dazed, angry condition.
Not to enjoy the busy life any more, not to see Michael
and the others and have a comfortable home and sing
in the Cathedral. How he lived after that he hardly
knew. But several miserable days went by.
One rainy night a young man whom he had known before,
came upon him near the Cathedral, and was struck by
his white, pinched face. He asked where the boy
was living. “Nowhere-I am starving,”
was the reply. Honest Franz Spangler was touched
at once.
“We can’t stand here in
the rain,” he said. “You know I haven’t
a palace to offer, but you are welcome to share my
poor place for one night anyway. Then we shall
see.”
It was indeed a poor garret where
the Spanglers lived, but the cheerful fire and warm
bread and milk were luxuries to the starving lad.
Best of all was it to curl up on the floor, beside
the dying embers and fall into refreshing slumber.
The next morning the world looked brighter. He
had made up his mind not to try and see his brother;
he would support himself by music. He did not
know just how he was going to do this, but determined
to fight for it and never give in.
Spangler, deeply touched by the boy’s
forlorn case, offered to let him occupy a corner of
his garret until he could find work, and Josef gratefully
accepted. The boy hoped he could quickly find
something to do; but many weary months were spent
in looking for employment and in seeking to secure
pupils, before there was the slightest sign of success.
Thinly clad as he was and with the vigorous appetite
of seventeen, which was scarcely ever appeased, he
struggled on, hopeful that spring would bring some
sort of good cheer.
But spring came, yet no employment
was in sight. His sole earnings had been the
coppers thrown to him as he stood singing in the snow
covered streets, during the long cold winter.
Now it was spring, and hope rose within him.
He had been taught to have simple faith in God, and
felt sure that in some way his needs would be met.
At last the tide turned slightly.
A few pupils attracted by the small fee he charged,
took lessons on the clavier; he got a few engagements
to play violin at balls and parties, while some budding
composers got him to revise their manuscripts for
a small fee. All these cheering signs of better
times made Josef hopeful and grateful. One day
a special piece of good fortune came his way.
A man who loved music, at whose house he had sometimes
played, sent him a hundred and fifty florins,
to be repaid without interest whenever convenient.
This sum seemed to Haydn a real fortune.
He was able to leave the Spanglers and take up a garret
of his own. There was no stove in it and winter
was coming on; it was only partly light, even at midday,
but the youth was happy. For he had acquired a
little worm-eaten spinet, and he had added to his
treasures the first six sonatas of Emmanuel Bach.
On the third floor of the house which
contained the garret, lived a celebrated Italian poet,
Metastasio. Haydn and the poet struck up
an acquaintance, which resulted in the musician’s
introduction to the poet’s favorite pupil, Marianne
Martinez. Also through Metastasio, Haydn
met Nicolo Porpora, an eminent teacher of
singing and composition. About this time another
avenue opened to him. It was a fashion in Vienna
to pick up a few florins by serenading prominent
persons. A manager of one of the principal theaters
in Vienna, Felix Kurz, had recently married a beautiful
woman, whose loveliness was much talked of. It
occurred to Haydn to take a couple of companions along
and serenade the lady, playing some of his own music.
Soon after they had begun to play the house door opened
and Kurz himself stood there in dressing gown and
slippers. “Whose music was that you were
playing?” he asked. “My own,”
was the answer. “Indeed; then just step
inside.” The three entered, wondering.
They were presented to Madame, then were given refreshments.
“Come and see me to-morrow,” said Kurz
when the boys left; “I think I have some work
for you.”
Haydn called next day and learned
the manager had written a libretto of a comic opera
which he called “The Devil on two Sticks,”
and was looking for some one to compose the music.
In one place there was to be a tempest at sea, and
Haydn was asked how he would represent that.
As he had never seen the sea, he was at a loss how
to express it. The manager said he himself had
never seen the ocean, but to his mind it was like
this, and he began to toss his arms wildly about.
Haydn tried every way he could think of to represent
the ocean, but Kurz was not satisfied. At last
he flung his hands down with a crash on each end of
the keyboard and brought them together in the middle.
“That’s it, that’s it,” cried
the manager and embraced the youth excitedly.
All went well with the rest of the opera. It
was finished and produced, but did not make much stir,
a fact which was not displeasing to the composer,
as he was not proud of his first attempt.
His acquaintance with Porpora
promised better things. The singing master had
noticed his skill in playing the harpsichord, and offered
to engage him as accompanist. Haydn gladly accepted
at once, hoping to pick up much musical knowledge
in this way. Old Porpora was very harsh
and domineering at first, treating him more like a
valet than a musician. But at last he was won
over by Haydn’s gentleness and patience, until
he was willing to answer all his questions and to
correct his compositions. Best of all he brought
Haydn to the attention of the nobleman in whose house
he was teaching, so that when the nobleman and his
family went to the baths of Mannersdorf for several
months, Haydn was asked to go along as accompanist
to Porpora.
The distinguished musicians he met
at Mannersdorf were all very kind to him and showed
much interest in his compositions, many of which were
performed during this visit. The nobleman, impressed
with Haydn’s desire to succeed, allotted him
a pension of a sum equal to fifteen dollars a month.
The young musician’s first act on receiving this
was to buy himself a neat suit of black.
Good fortune followed him on his return
to Vienna. More pupils came, until he was able
to raise his prices and move into better lodgings.
A wealthy patron of music, the Countess of Thun, sent
for him to come and see her. She had heard one
of his clavier sonatas played, found it charming and
wished to see the composer. Her manner was so
sympathetic, that Haydn was led to tell her the story
of his struggles. Tears came into her eyes as
she listened. She promised her support as friend
and pupil, and Haydn left her with a happy, grateful
heart.
His compositions were heard in the
best musical circles in Vienna, and the future was
bright with promise. A wealthy music patron persuaded
him to write a string quartet, the first of many to
follow. Through this man he received, in 1759,
an appointment of music director to a rich Bohemian,
Count Morzin, who had a small orchestra at his country
seat. In the same year the first Symphony was
composed.
As brighter days dawned, Haydn procured
all the works on theory obtainable, and studied them
deeply. He had mastered the difficulties of the
“Gradus,” one of the books purchased years
before, and without any outside help had worked out
his musical independence, uninfluenced by any other
musician. He was now twenty-six, and his fame
was growing. Meanwhile an affair of the heart
had great influence on his life. Sometime previously
Haydn had been engaged to give lessons on the harpsichord
to two daughters of a wig-maker named Keller.
An attachment soon sprang up between the teacher and
the younger of the girls. His poverty had stood
in the way of making his feelings known. But
as prosperity began to dawn, he grew courageous and
asked the maiden to become his wife. His disappointment
was keen when he found the girl had in the meantime
decided to take the veil. The wig-maker proved
to be a matchmaker, for when he learned how matters
stood he urged the composer to take the sister, who
was only three years older. The gentle Haydn
was unable to withstand the pressure brought to bear,
and consented. After his bride was his he found
he had won a virago, one who cared nothing for art
or for her husband’s ideals, if only she could
have enough money to spend.
The composer was in sad straits for
a while, but fortunately a way opened by means of
which he could be free. Count Morzin, where he
had conducted the orchestra, was obliged to reduce
his establishment and dismissed his band and its director.
As soon as this was known, the reigning Prince of
Hungary, Paul Anton Esterhazy offered Haydn the post
of assistant Capellmeister at his country seat of Eisenstadt.
The head Capellmeister, Werner, was old, but the Prince
kept him on account of his long service. Haydn,
however, was to have entire control of the orchestra,
and also of most of the musical arrangements.
Haydn was blissfully happy over the
realization of his highest hopes. In his wildest
dreams he had never imagined such magnificence as he
found at the palace of Eisenstadt. The great buildings,
troops of servants, the wonderful parks and gardens,
with their flowers, lakes and fountains almost made
him believe he was in fairyland. Of course there
would be some hard work, though it would not seem hard
amid such fascinating surroundings and there would
be plenty of leisure for his own creative activities.
Best of all his wife could not be with him.
Prince Paul Anton passed away after
a year and his brother Nikolaus succeeded him.
He advanced Haydn still further, and increased his
salary. Werner, the old Capellmeister, died in
1766, and Haydn succeeded to the full title.
This was the father’s dream for his boy Josef,
and it had been abundantly realized. His mother
had passed away, but his father was living, and had
come, on one occasion, to Eisenstadt to see him.
His brother Michael who had now become Concertmeister
in Salzburg, spent several happy days with him also.
The summer residence of Prince Nikolaus
at Esterhazy had been rebuilt, enlarged and was more
magnificent than Eisenstadt. The music was more
elaborate. The Prince was so fond of the life
there that he postponed his return to town till late
in the autumn.
In order to give him a hint through
music, Haydn composed what he called the “Farewell
Symphony,” in which, toward the close each pair
of players in turn rose, extinguished their candles
and passed out, until only the first violinist remained.
He last of all blew out his light and left, while
Haydn prepared to follow. The Prince at last
understood, and treating the whole as a joke, gave
orders for the departure of the household.
In 1790 Haydn lost the master to whom
he was so devotedly attached. He received a pension
of a thousand florins on condition that he would
retain his post. But Prince Anton, who succeeded
his brother, cared nothing for music; Haydn was not
obliged to live at the palace and returned to Vienna.
Several attempts had already been made to induce him
to visit London, but he always had refused. Now
there seemed to be no obstacle in the way. One
day a visitor called. “My name is Salomon;
I have come from London to fetch you; we will settle
terms to-morrow.” On the sail from Calais
to Dover, the composer first saw the sea and was reminded
of his boyish efforts to describe it in tones.
London welcomed Haydn warmly, for
his fame had preceded him and his music was familiar.
The first concert was given March 11, 1790 at the
Hanover Square Rooms, and was a great success.
This was followed by a series of concerts, and at
last a benefit for the composer on May 16, which was
an ovation and realized three hundred and fifty pounds.
He heard the “Messiah” for the first time
and when, at the “Hallelujah Chorus,”
the audience sprang to its feet, he burst into tears,
exclaiming “He is the master of us all!”
At Oxford, in July, he received the
honorary degree of Doctor of Music, and three great
concerts were given in his honor, with special performers
brought from London. In fact the whole visit to
England had been such a success that he repeated the
trip in 1794, and received even greater honors.
His symphonies were heard on all London programs.
He was the lion of the season, and was frequently invited
to Buckingham Palace to play for the King and Queen,
who always urged him to live in England. Haydn
was now sixty-five; he had composed quantities of
music, but his greatest work, “The Creation,”
was not yet written. While in London, Salomon
had shown him a poem founded on “Paradise Lost,”
written years before in the hope that Handel would
use it for an oratorio. Haydn decided to try his
hand at oratorio on this subject. As he went
on, it grew to be a labor of love and prayer.
It was finished and performed in Vienna, March 19,
1799, and made a profound impression. The composer
at once began work on a second oratorio, founded on
Thompson’s “Seasons.” The desire
for work was strong within, but his health was failing.
“‘The Seasons’ gave me my finishing
stroke,” he often remarked to friends.
Haydn was acknowledged on every hand
as the father of instrumental music. He laid
great stress on melody. “It is the air which
is the charm of music,” he said, “and
it is the air which is the most difficult to produce.
The invention of a fine melody is a work of genius.”
Full of years and honors, respected
and beloved, Father Haydn passed away. As Vienna
was at that time in the hands of the French, he was
given a very simple burial. In 1820 Prince Esterhazy
had the remains reinterred in the upper parish church
at Eisenstadt, where a simple stone with Latin inscription
is placed in the wall above the vault to mark the
spot.